


The Tales of the Dovahkiin

by AuthorDude99



Series: The Saga of Skathi Wolf-Runner [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Atypical Violence, Canon Autistic Character, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 117,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22147429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorDude99/pseuds/AuthorDude99
Summary: In a time of war, dragons have returned to the desolate tundras of Skyrim. To face this, the Dragonborn will arise. Meanwhile, the war is still fought. A young Breton joins for adventure. An Imperial fights for home and king. A Dunmer fights for herself. Their stories will be told.
Series: The Saga of Skathi Wolf-Runner [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594060
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

Skyrim is a harsh land. Snow falls thick and suffocating, thick enough to swallow your foot and still not feel solid ground. Few from other lands ever try farming, for they lack the patience most Nords for it. And if you refused to let the snow consume you, the tree-falling winds will bend you to breaking like brittle wood.

Of course, Rena was still there. It was her duty to be there as a soldier. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a Nord, for the Empire needed soldiers to tame the land.

And the land was yet untamed. A rebellion led by one of the Jarls had spread like wildfire across Skyrim. Their goal was independence from the Empire, as misguided as it was. For every soldier they fell for themselves, the more wolves would look at their land as a prize. Should they be successful, the Empire would surely die.

Rena thanked the Eight Divines that it was soon over. Someone passed information that the rebel Jarl would be passing through Darkwater Crossing on his way to Windhelm. The Legion took advantage of this and mounted an ambush to capture or kill him. Word had gotten back that he surrendered, perhaps at the sight of overwhelming odds, but those details were unknown.

That message had reached Rena only a few hours ago, at the break of the dawn. Since then, Rena took her post at the city gate in anticipation for her fellow soldiers to arrive with the captive Jarl and his men. It gave her time to think, if nothing else, of what she would do afterwards.

The Empire always needed soldiers, but once they were certain sedition was impossible, what would she do? Would she be assigned to a random outpost along the Empire’s boarders? Would she be sent to some wayward station to defend the roads? Would she even stay in the Legion? Her mother would certainly like that last one.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the Imperial convoy headed down the road. Carts that bore the prisoners were surrounded by Legionnaires on horseback. There were few only two carts, one that held Nords in the rebel’s blue garb, but the second was different. Only one soldier in blue was held there, with a couple random Nords filling out the ranks, a man and one she wasn’t certain of. And of course, that cart held the rebel Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak.

Ulfric’s presence was as sundering as his Shout. Any who knew him on sight could feel an aura as though he would shatter stone for fun. He wore black furs, mail and steel plate so he could stick out like blood on the snow. His yellow mane and beard were hindered by a cloth gag meant to silence him, whether it would work or not.

Word had spread that not long ago, he slew Torygg, the High King of Skyrim. Some say he challenged the King in duel like the Old Ways of the Nords. Others say all he did was Shout and it tore him asunder. Rena refused to believe rumors, whether they were based on truth or not. Still, the former seemed likelier than the latter. She couldn’t imagine how someone could killed with their voice, even Ulfric Stormcloak.

Rena opened the gate and the citizens soon began to gawk. Children were told to stay inside and not to look. She found it made sense. Seeing a rebel in chains could act as a message to follow a path to avenge him and no parent would want that for their child. There were those that spit on the chart as it passed and those that spit on the Legionnaires’ boots. This is what Ulfric did to Skyrim.

To the side, Rena saw General Tullius, the governor in the stead of a king. They shared a conversation once or twice, both regarding the rebels, which many would call Stormcloaks in reference to their leader. From them, she saw that he was a soldier, if nothing else. However, he was tasked with being engaged in Skyrim’s politics, something he’d rather not do.

To compound that, he was met by Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim. The Thalmor were those who ruled the Aldmeri Dominion, an Elven regime with naked ambitions to rule over in place of the Empire. Many knew they were vile, but they had also fought the Empire once before and the Empire was forced to sue for peace instead of victory.

“Governor Tullius,” Elenwen ordered, “I formally demand you surrender Jarl Ulfric and his men to me, immediately.”

“Ambassador, I feel that’s irregular,” the general replied, “The Stormcloak rebellion is an internal matter of the Empire, not the Thalmor.”

Elenwen clenched her eyes like a snake. “Their cause violates the White-Gold Concordant,” she explained, “I believe that’s enough cause for the Thalmor to incarcerate them.”

Rena grit her teeth at the mention. At the end of the war, the Thalmor drafted a treaty that favored them heavily. A condition is that worship of Talos, the Ninth Divine, be outlawed. Few would sign the treaty had they felt they had a choice. Ulfric despised this agreement and championed the cause to bring Talos worship back. When the Empire labeled him a criminal for his efforts, he began the rebellion.

Perhaps Elenwen had the right to detain them, but not jurisdiction. None of her soldiers were at the ambush, it wasn’t her brethren that were dying to bring him to justice. To presume they deserved Ulfric when they didn’t fight for him boiled Rena’s blood.

“With all due respect,” Tullius said, “they’re prisoners of the Empire, not the Dominion. If you want a transfer, you should’ve put through the paperwork before we wheeled the headsman all the way down here.”

As Tullius rode away, Rena processed what she heard. A headsman would only be brought here if he meant to execute someone soon. That with Ulfric’s arrival could only mean he would be put to death with the rest of the prisoners. That would violate their rights to a trial, as outlined by Imperial law. True, his crimes were known, but there was a process to this. Perhaps it really was that bad.

Elenwen, on the other hand, didn’t take it was well. Even atop the wall, Rena could see the Thalmor’s fist clenched tight. However, something didn’t make sense. One could see her behavior was not akin to a whiney child that isn’t getting what she wants; it seemed more complicated than that. Nothing obvious, but something about this seemed less petty than disrespecting her authority.

After the Thalmor party left, Rena watch from a distance the execution. The captain led the prisoners into a line, barking orders unintelligible by the gate. In a shocking display, one of the colorless Nords ran off, protesting his innocence. He didn’t get far before the archers shot him down. Such a waste of life.

Not long after, a priest seemed to begin a blessing, but one of the Stormcloaks stepped up impatiently. No one could say what would motivate a man to want death, but this was their way it seemed. The soldier leaned over the headsman’s block and an axe soon removed his head from his body, killing him instantly.

As the corpse was set aside, a sound shattered through the air. A bellowing shriek, animalistic, primal. It was beyond Rena’s knowledge what it was, but many shuddered at this unknown noise. It didn’t stop the execution, but it certainly gave it great pause.

As the remaining colorless Nord was led, something shot through the air. No arrow or bird, but a monster. It looked as though a giant bat made of shards of black glass. It was beyond anything she had seen, but in mosaics and metalwork.  
It was a Dragon.

The Dragon set down on the highest tower and shouted as hellfire rained from the heavens. In that moment, nothing mattered beyond fighting this monstrosity. Prisoners scattered as soldiers threw arrows and magic in vain. Citizen ran in terror as stone that stood of over an Era was brought shattered like glass.

If the gates of Oblivion opened at the End-Times, then this was surely it. Rena nocked an arrow in her bow, pulled the string as far as she could, aimed straight at the Dragon’s eye and loosed, whether it would land its target or not. She would not let the world die quietly.

She would be as harsh and loud as Skyrim before her final breath.


	2. Chapter 1

Skathi ran in terror, for few could ever prepare for Dragons. The ancient fiends were legends never seen in hundreds of years, not common place for thousands more. In this, she thanked Akatosh, for this one rained the fires of Oblivion’s deepest depths upon the innocent folk of this town.

She made it to one of the watchtowers, where the Stormcloaks took shelter. Skathi’s experience with them was extorted service. They came to her as a guide through the Jerall Mountains in return for her life. When they passed the Mountains, they still held her captive to keep from their enemies from having a witness. They promised to let her free when they reached the city Windhelm, but then the Legionnaires attacked, leaving such statements void.

As Skathi scrambled through the door, the soldier called Ralof said, “Jarl Ulfric, what is that? Could the legends be true?”

The black clad Nord simply replied, “Legends don’t burn down villages,” in a way that seemed like he was prepared to go back out and slay the Dragon himself. He may have gotten his gag off, but his Shout surely would not bring it to the ground.

In a moment of rest, the Beast’s roar echoed through, earning the room’s attention. It was horrid sound, shattering, breaking. Like thunder at night, it told of destruction close to come. Strangely, every cry almost sounded like speech, like another language on its own. Skathi was surprised she could hear this, though warry to tell the others for fear of being labeled mad.

The Stormcloak leader turned to his men and said, “We need to move. Now!”

“Up through the tower,” Ralof called, “let’s go!”

Skathi picked herself up and bolted up the stairwell with a Stormcloak in the lead. She stepped up the rough and slick steps until a she tripped in time for the wall to burst open and the soldier ahead of her was thrown off by dragonfire.

The outsider collapsed on the landing and curled up. Her heart was racing beyond health or comfort. This day and the day before had strained her soul and body. She didn’t want to be in this place, but she didn’t want to go any further.

“Kinsman, are you alright?” Ralof asked and put his hand on Skathi’s shoulder, earning her whine. The soldier stood her up, much to her discomfort. “Listen,” he continued, “See that inn on the other side?”

Skathi looked down and saw still standing rubble of wood and straw. It looked too far to jump, but she suspected that didn’t matter.

“Jump through the roof,” Ralof ordered.

Skathi would protest, but her speech was lacking her. The sheer stress of this had caused her to go silent. Her thoughts were scattered and dark, leading her to thinking the jump would do her good, regardless if she lived. At least this nightmare would end and Arkay would take her to peace at last.

Before Ralof could say another word, Skathi tossed herself into the ruined inn. On the landing, pain like daggers shot through her shin with an arrow’s speed. She stumbled onto a still standing table and heaved, eyes closed shut. She lived and she would have to soldier on to survive this ordeal. Oh, may she soon live in uninteresting times.

Limping with a broken leg, Skathi made her way down to the first floor and out the inn. She looked out onto the quickly ruined village in anguish. She preferred her solitude, but this desolation was beyond what she would wish on anyone. Even on her greatest enemies, she would not want this.

To her right, an Imperial soldier was shepherding the villagers to safety. Skathi saw this and bolted to his promised haven, whether it held or not.

“Haming, you need to get over here,” the soldier called to a child, “Now!”

Skathi saw the child, a boy, stood on his own in the inferno, balling at the sight of everything he knew in flame. She could say for sure that he was finding greater horror in this than she ever could. She guided the boy, presumably called Haming, over to the soldier and his neighbors.

Once the boy was safe, fire came down and set a man ablaze. Skathi and the soldier looked in horror as the stream of burning death tore off him and he fell to the ground. He still lived, evident by how he was trying to drag himself over but failing. The light soon set on his eyes and another soul was Arkay’s ward.

Still reeling, the soldier ordered, “Gunnar, take care of the boy; I have to find General Tullius and join their defense.”

The soldier, who Skathi caught was called Hadvarr, bolted off, the outsider in tow. It was better to keep with those with swords than those without in these crises.

Hadvar looked back and spotted Skathi before crying, “Stay close to the wall!”

Just then, the Dragon landed atop the stone wall and peered across his work. Pressing herself against the bricks, the outsider saw the glowing red eyes of the beast. One cannot claim to know the mind of a beast like this, but it seemed proud of its actions here. It seemed like all it had done was giving it some semblance of pleasure.

When the Dragon took flight, Skathi and Hadvarr bolted to a group of soldiers with General Tullius at the center. Battlemages and archers lined the walls, flinging magicka and arrows the monster in flight. If nothing else, it was a sign of the legion’s dedication to their duty.

“Hadvarr!” the General cried, “Into the keep, soldier; we’re leaving!”

Skathi couldn’t blamed them; this was death.

The soldier and outsider bolted to the tallest building in the village and came face to face with Ralof. The two soldiers gave piercing gazes at each other like daggers. It seemed more personal than they were on opposing sides of a war. It seemed a remorseful hatred, like they once knew each other.

“Ralof!” Hadvar barked, “You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof replied “You're not stopping us this time."

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde."

"You!” Ralof called at Skathi, “Come on, into the keep!"

Skathi was given a choice: follow the Stormcloak or the Imperial. Questions roamed her mind. Who could keep her safe? Who would die in retreat? Would she be forever an enemy to the Empire if she followed Ralof? Or would she be left behind by Hadvarr for foolish reasons? None of these should be considered by a stressed mind.

In the end, Skathi chose to go with Ralof and bolted to where he was. Had the Dragon not attacked, the Empire would’ve had her head, and the Stormcloak didn’t seem to wish her harm. Even when Ulfric’s party extorted her services, he wasn’t among her harassers. He was a safe bet, better than the soldier that was ordered to bring her to the chopping block.

After Skathi limped into the keep, she found Ralof crouched over a dead body. It bore armor and colors like his own, making them comrades in arms. Formerly, given he was now in Arkay’s charge. The soldiers sighed after a long silence and stripped the fallen Nord’s armor off and presented it to the outsider.

“Here,” he said, “You need it more than he does.”

Skathi took the gambeson donned the ragged armor, setting aside her fur wrappings. It seemed baggy, but not too ill-fitting. It was hopefully not damming of her more masculine attributes. It was an unfortunate addition to this accursed day.

She picked up the axe and swung it around. She was used to spears and bows, so she had expertise when it came to these. She could say it didn’t feel cumbersome, so at least there was that.

Suddenly, Skathi heard a something down the hallway, past the doorway. Clinking, clattering metal strung together on something moving. Imperial soldiers in heavy armor, surely. Ralof motioned to stand to one side of the door as he took the opposite. The closing footsteps sent fear down the outsider’s spine.

As the two soldiers entered, she saw one was the captain that sentenced her to die. In a rage, she brought her axe down onto the Imperial’s head. It didn’t break her helm and only dazed her, so Skathi grabbed her from behind and jammed the blade into her neck. Her death rattle almost overshadowed the sound of Ralof slaying the other Imperial.

Skathi took a moment to calm down, the blood fresh on her hands. She stared at it, unblinking. She hadn’t killed anyone for years, not since she went into the wilderness. The sensation came back like trauma. Fear of a god’s judgement, the thoughts of what a person was and what could have been, the knowledge that everyone this woman knew would never hear her voice again.

Monster.

“We need to leave,” Ralof said, gentling leading her away.

The travel through the tunnels was horrible. The air was stuff and stale, toxic. They passed through a torturer’s chamber and Ralof killed the soldiers there. There were none alive except them, so they took some supplies and left. They saw some figures in the hallway, but the ceiling fell between them and they were cut off.

Throughout, Skathi reframed from killing anything. They were faced with Imperial soldiers, but she did nothing to support or undermine her companion. Frostbite Spiders blocked their path, but she let Ralof deal with them. There was a bear, but she just led them around the beast. She had her fill of blood and death today.

After the bear, they found a way out of the caves. Skathi quickly limped out the exit and took in the cool air around her, the soft sunlight on her brow. Before she could breath, the dragon cried without warning and flew above, but took no notice of them. This brief panic went away as the Beast left.

As it passed out of sight, Skathi let out a sigh. She caught a glimpse of soft grass and let herself fall on the knoll. She was free for now and let herself fall asleep, at peace for now.

* * *

Jeanne looked out on the city of Windhelm. It had walls of stone and ice, human constructs and the natural weather creating an impenetrable fortress. Watching out alongside the blue-clad soldiers were hawks like gargoyles, built as thought to guard from invaders. Its imposing form, tall and unmoving, gave a sense that this was stronger than any castle or fort she’d seen before. It was a true testament to the Nords’ ancestors that it still stood, the first city of Skyrim.

If Windhelm were anything like the Nords, Jeanne would have her work cut out for her. She’d sailed here to join the Stormcloak Rebellion, seeing worth in their cause. She saw their need to fight for their choice in worship, whether she worshipped Talos or not. In truth, she called Mara her goddess and was more devout to Her than any other Divine. Still, if any were to say she could no longer pray to Her, she would raise fire and strife before they had the chance.

The ship docked and a few Argonians came to tie it down. Jeanne was unused to Beastfolk, being a Breton of High Rock, she rarely saw their like in palace courts. As such, she kept her distance as she disembarked her vessel. Granted, it wasn’t acceptable behavior, but she did want to get used to them and their fellows.

Out of the corner of her eye, one of the Argonians came up beside her. This was a surprise and Jeanne took a step back. What did he want?

“Ma’am, your captain said you were paying for the journey,” he explained in a scratchy voice, “the docking fees are a hundred Septims.”

Jeanne took a breath in relief. Of all things, she didn’t want to be harassed on her first day in Skyrim. She was an outsider here, so she expected it to happen at least once. If she was frightened by a worker simply asking for pay, then her life as a daughter of House Hawksly had surely left her sheltered. Perhaps too much for comfort.

Once the coin was paid, she walked across the docks to enter the city. She saw few Nords at work, mostly Argonians, and every of the former seemed attached to their own ships. With a workforce exclusively made of a single race, it couldn’t help but raise the question why. Segregation seemed most likely, something her father spoke often of, but it wasn’t something she was taught was wise. Breed your own workforce and they’ll have no freedom and hate you for it, which can only lead to strife.

As she entered the city, there were two paths before her. One had guards on patrol, the other did not. One was bare as the Windhelm walls, the other was covered in torn banners and graffiti. One held seemed safe, the other did not. And to left, by the dangerous road, was a little girl with a flow basket.

“Please,” she said in a tired voice, “spare a coin?”

Jeanne look down and saw this girl’s pain. She seemed thin, like she hadn’t eaten enough. Her left arm was fixed as thought any movement would make it shatter in half. Any life in her skin or hair had been iced like the walls and brittle. Her clothes were rags that held no heat that could be seen. Surely, she deserved more than Septims.

The Breton took ten coin from her pouch and held it out to be taken. The look on the girl’s face was pure gold.

“Oh, thank you!” she beamed, “take these flowers!” She took the Septims and gave five blue flowers to the adult.

Jeanne soon left, having said goodbye to the girl, called Sofie. She walked through what she saw as the safe path, only to see a Dunmer flanked by two Nords.

One Nord barked, “You come here where you’re not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks.”

“But we haven’t taken a side because it’s not our fight,” the Dark Elf woman replied.

The other Nord chimed in, “Hey, maybe the reason these gray-skins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies!”

“Imperial spies?” she hissed, “you can’t be serious!”

“Maybe we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy,” the first Nord barked, “We got ways of finding out what you really are.”

As the two left, Jeanne could feel bile at the corners of her mouth. Such unrefined and unfounded hate was despicable. From what she heard, High King Torygg brought Dunmer refugees here to save them from destruction at the hands of fire and lava, not to spy on Skyrim’s citizenry. One or two perhaps, but not the hundreds that came for shelter.

Jeanne stood beside the woman, but before she said anything, the latter asked, “Do you hate the dark elves? Are you here to bully us and tell us to leave?" She seemed so used to these sentiments that her anger came to her like how to put on her shoes.

“No, I don’t hate your people,” the Breton replied.

“Then you’ve come to the wrong city,” she said as she left.

Without someone to talk to, and sunset coming soon, Jeanne made her way to what she assumed was an inn, Candlehearth Hall. It fit the architecture well, with hawks watching over and the stone frozen in place. The difference was that it seemed warm, whether in the windows or the shingles painted hazel brown.

She entered and took a seat at the bar. She ordered some cooked beef and grilled leeks when soldiers entered. Their armor was torn and rent, themselves seeming soaked to the bone. Two carried quivers that each held one or two arrows left. One seemed to have a scabbard with no sword. It looked as though they had been through Hircine’s hunting grounds.

The trio set their helmet’s aside and blobbed onto a bench by the bar. Jeanne got a better look at them and they were neither male nor Nords. The was a Redguard, swarthy, lean and a cold look in her eyes. In the middle was a High Elf, golden skin and golden hair. Last was one closest to the door, a Dunmer, with gray-ish blue skin and eyes full of the night skin.

“Who might you three be?” Jeanne inquired.

The High Elf leaned forward. “I’m Eoni Half-Good,” she explained, “The one to my right is Ravani, she’ll kill Rolff Stone-Fist for justice. And to my left is Mikaela, who’ll kill Rolff Stone-Fist for fun.”

“Truly?” the Breton asked.

“No,” Eoni explained, “but I like the idea of it getting back at Rolff and it scares him into becoming devout.”

A waitress came by and took the trio’s orders. They each had cabbage soup, much to their chagrin, and Ravani had an entire jug of milk. She came back with the food on a tray and a man lugging the milk behind her. Ravani took the jug with both hands and drank down the whole thing in one swig. An impressive feat to be sure, if perhaps not a good idea.

Jeanne saw these soldiers and thought to her own ambitions. She wanted to fight for what she thought was right, but these three seemed to do so with hardship. Even if they weren’t survivors of some sort, they were filthy and worn, no glory or song to their names. Jeanne wondered how hard she’d have to fight and if she would even survive.

Suddenly, a soldier burst through the door, torch in hand. “Ulfric Stormcloak lives!” he belted, “but a Dragon shadows his trail!”

The trio sighed and took their helmets and unfinished food in hand. With that, they were off. Whether the Dragon was real or not, they stilled headed into the fray again. No word of protest or cry of indignation; only cold resignation. No rest for the weary, no glory to grunts or funeral for the unmourned.

“It’s their lot in life,” the barkeep remarked, “Be glad you’re not one of them.”

But that’s what Jeanne came here to be. And to fight and die for this lot turned her stomach. She bought a room and laid without sleep in contemplation. She hoped not to waste her time or life with the wrong cause, but she was here and had few options. Perhaps in the morning, she would know the right choice.

* * *

It was becoming a long day for Rena. The leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion was captured, a Dragon emerged from the annals of mythology to interrupt his execution, the city was set ablaze and the garrison had to retreat, refugees in tow. It was not over yet though; they still had to get to Falkreath to rest and resupply from the long trek to Solitude.

They were still reeling from the attack, both soldiers and civilians. Injuries permeated so many, with barely a horse or strong lad left unoccupied by two wounded, maybe three if there was a child. The charts were overfilled with more. Battlemages tried to use their limited healing abilities to mend them, by they were tired and drank Magicka potions, ravaging their own health in the process with that damn Haafinger brew. Some fell, not from the pain, but from having to carry the injured for so long.

Rena rode in front to guide the convoy and guard them from wild beasts or opportunistic bandits. She was remarkably unscathed from the experience, but she’d gotten a terrible cough from the ash. A battlemage offered to check it, but she refused, telling them to deal with the more grievously wounded. In truth, she always had a terrible cough, especially around Spring, but it seemed to have gotten worse with the attack. She kept it as quiet as humanly possible, but it could still be heard fifty heads away.

“We should be close,” the lieutenant beside her reported. Rena couldn’t respond; her attempt to maintain her breathing meant she didn’t speak.

Sure enough, Falkreath was just a few minutes away. It was a quaint little town. It didn’t feel like a city, nor hold capital, by any means. Wooden walls were usually reserved for villages, not the center of an entire hold. The low buildings and claustrophobic roads didn’t help the feeling it lacked the breath of other capitals. Still, it had a homely atmosphere, which was probably more comforting than anywhere else in Skyrim.

On the way, a purple clad guard ran up to Rena. “Soldier, did you see a dog while you were out there?” he asked.

Rena shook her head, still holding her breath.

“Well, it was worth it to ask,” he said as he left.

She dismounted and leaned on the hitching post, her horse having been tied up. She was ready for the healer’s touch, cool drink and warm food. She took a free battlemage aside that had been pestering her before about it and nodded. He sighed, but still applied healing to her lungs and throat. She coughed for ‘round a minute before she finally felt confident that she could speak.

Rena sauntered into the inn, the Dead Man’s Drink. She ordered the freshest steamed mudcrab legs and a pitcher of water. While she was waiting, General Tullius came to her table. He looked grimy and whipped, not at like the pristine officer from Helgen. He’d been riding at the back of the convoy, making sure everyone was safe. She didn’t expect that of him.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Go right ahead,” she replied in a raspy voice, not quite used to speaking again.

He set down next to her as Rena’s order came. “What will you have, legionnaire?” the waitress, Narri, asked. She was wearing a quite revealing outfit.

“You got any apple pie here?” he asked, “I’d love some.”

She winked and left.

“I talked to the jarl,” Tullius explained, “He’s an arrogant little bastard, but he agreed to care for the refugees and injured.”

“Good,” Rena replied. At least she could stop worrying about them.

“Have you seen Captain Virata?” he asked Rena. She shook her head no. “Well, there goes one good officer. I intended to reform the garrison into a company under Tribune Solana Barsotti for the war effort. Looks you’ll be a captain under her.”

Rena was surprised. “General, I don’t think you’re thinking this through,” she said, “I’m a bastard, I haven’t been in the Legion a year, I only barely got through training.”

“And you’re still here,” Tullius replied, “Virata had been in the Legion six years and we don’t even know where her body is. War doesn’t give us the best and brightest to lead the next battle; only survivors.” As Narri brought his pie to the table, he explained, “Something tells me you’ll survive longer than I will. My wife would sure think so with how I’ve been eating.”

Rena stewed over this. She’d joined the Legion because of duty, honor and family. Her mother’s family had a proud military heritage and she herself felt compelled to join. She fought her health and the Legion’s prejudices against her bastardy to be here. And what was she given in return? The most horrifying experience of her life. If that dragon is still here, the battlefield would be deadlier than before with a force that saw either side as an ally.

But she still would not leave. The Empire needed Skyrim. If they lost Skyrim, they would lose High Rock. And if they lost High Rock, they would be surrounded. Cyrodiil would fall with no allies to call upon. They lost too many miles for her to let an inch stop her. She would still serve her people, as hard as it would be.

As she came to this, a thundering echo galloped into town. Rena came to the door to see a full company of mounted Legionnaires arrive into town and stop where the maybe forty Imperial soldiers still lived. At the front was a man she could not tell if he was from Skyrim or Cyrodiil, but she could still tell his presence demanded the ear of Divines.

“Is General Tullius here?” he said in a commanding voice that felt like the northern winds.

The general came out, holding his pie. “Present,” he said, “And you are?”

“Captain Ansgar, Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion,” he explained, “We’ve been called away from hunting the Forsworn to make sure Ulfric is returned to captivity or executed before he reaches Windhelm.” He inquired, “Are there any soldiers ready to ride?”

Rena bolted to her horse and mounted up, ready for battle. She was ready to serve right now. Following her, twelve of the uninjured men took steeds, a few tossing a coin purse to the stable boy. At least there were souls still ready for battle.

“You go,” Tullius said, “I’ll watch over the refugees and injured.”

“Yeah, eat your apple pie,” a voice said, “We’ll go win the war for ya!”

Ansgar was annoyed by this. Rena could only hazard that there was a joker in this company. He still seemed determined and rode off, the rest leading behind him.

The mounted company flew like Kynareth was with them. The wind was behind them, the rain barely catching them. The earth beneath them bounced against their hooves, specks flying around them. As mud formed, it made no difference to their speed and maybe they even gained some ground.

They would not stop. Rena would not stop. She would end this war now or die now. May Stendarr be with her, Kynareth guide her and Arkay take her if she fails.

* * *

Ravani rode against the wind and rainfall across the road. She was tasked with extracting Jarl Ulfric from his pursuers. She might’ve joined his cause, but not for him. He could live or die for all she cared, but his death would bring an end to rebellion, so it was out obligation she was out there. All she wanted to do was to not live under a corrupt empire and this was the way to do it.

Beside there were eleven other riders, all experienced in their own rights. There was no margin for error here, for it may surely mean their leader’s death. The weather may drain them, but they were still stronger warriors than Imperial regulars.

To her left was Eoni Half-Good. She joined on the pretense that she was doing this for her half-Nord heritage, which earned her that nickname. Nobody believed this, but she still found kinship with the other Stormcloaks. Every smile she gave seemed fake to Ravani, but maybe that was just her.

To her right was Mikaela. It was not known why she joined the cause. They knew she was from outside of Skyrim, but not which province. From her actions alone, she believed in the Stormcloak cause, but that was most people that joined. She rarely talked about anything or could be seen outside the barracks. She was a mystery, no question.

At the front of the pack was Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s chief lieutenant. He was a soldier long before Ravani could walk, even when he surely needed retirement. He was in the Great War with Ulfric and continued to serve his good friend, perhaps onto death. He was a brusque person, but that was no surprise given his military history. That did not mean he should be that way all the time, especially to the Dunmer.

As the weather reach its zenith, they spotted about four figures, indistinct at this distance. They could still tell that three were clad in the blue Stormcloak colors, one in black at the centered. If it were not their missing comrades, it was a surely strange coincidence.

On approach, it was them, though soaked to the bone. Ulfric’s furs took on the size of weasels instead of wolf heads like before. He did not have the miserable expression the soldiers had, only the look of someone who had been waiting patiently. He did have faith in his old friend, so perhaps he expected this rescue.

“Good work, Galmar,” the jarl said, mounting on his friend’s horse.

“Is this all that’s left?” the lieutenant inquired.

“The headsman took Fareolf to Sovngarde,” Ulfric explained, his voice heavy, “The dragon took out Tolskar. I don’t know what happened to Gunjar and Ralof.”

So, the dragon was real. She read the Nord myths from books and storytellers but ignored them. The next thing you’ll be telling her the Nerevarine was real. Still, if it was real, it would take more than her bow to kill it.

From the other end of the road, they heard a thundering echo like five hundred running warriors in steel plate. Before long, they saw a mounted company galloping towards them. The Legion had followed them. The survivors mounted up, the Stormcloaks bolted, Ravani following suit.

“Into the trees!” Ulfric commanded.

The riders veered into the forest and thick brush. The foliage was a good place to lose them, but also each other. If they were unlucky, they would be separated with ten riders on each of their backs. Ravani could still see the others, but the maze of oaks was throwing her off.

The Imperials were still behind them and loosing arrows upon them. One struck the back of one of the survivors and their health was failing. Ravani drew her bow and loosed her own replenished supply of arrows. They hit a few riders, but none were dismounted, and her position meant she was missing several times.

“Mikaela!” she called, “Dismount!”

The two launched off their saddles and onto branches. If Ravani could be certain of anything about her Redguard comrade, it was her skills. She, like the Dunmer, was an archer with the acrobatics of a circus performer and could lose herself in the shadows when needed. Ravani’s skill came living in the Gray Quarter and evading corrupt guards, but who knows where Mikaela got hers.

They rained arrows onto the mounted company, their torchlight an easy guide with the nightfall. This stability was helpful in comparison to horseback. Several targets fell, killed from the impact if not the arrows. Some tried to shoot them down, even stopping for better aim, but they usually missed or died from the quicker Stormcloak archers.

Soon enough, the Imperials seemed fed up and threw torches onto the tree. The two were careful not to hit any of the torchbearers for fear of forest fire. This was what they wanted to avoid. Fortunately, the rainfall kept them from spreading far, but they should not tempt fate. Ravani poured her freshly filled canteen onto the pile of torches.

As the Dunmer was doing this, Mikaela jump down onto one of the riders and forced him off his mount. One of his comrades tried to avenge him, but he lost his head. She motioned for her shield-sister to jump on the freshly painted horse and ride with her. As they were at the back of the pack now, they could not do much here to help, so Ravani leaped from her perch and onto the stead.

They quickly saw that the rest of the company was far in front of them. The only thing they could do was trail behind them and take potshots. With their relative uselessness silently understood, they turned back into the road. No one would be there right now, so it was safe to travel.

Ravani threw her cloak up to save her from the rain. Riding so fast for so long with the weather what it was, she was soaked to the bone. She was ready for a simple ride down the cobblestone path.

“You think they’ll be alright?” the Dunmer asked her comrade.

The solemn figure simply said, “It is irrelevant to our predicament; we need to find shelter.”

Ravani thought about settlements close by. “I think our best bet is Kynesgrove, if only so we don’t have to ascend the Rift.”

“If only,” Mikaela replied, “Ride.”

And so, they cantered down the road to Kynesgrove. Ravani hoped the others survived, if only for the cause. They were needed for the cause, but she wondered what good the cause was now? A dragon was here! She trusted the fighting might of the Imperial Legion more than the egotistical Nords to handle this new paradigm. Still, she could not defect without a show of good will. People left the Empire to join the Stormcloaks, not the reverse. It would take some thought.

She contemplated it the entire ride before arriving in Kynesgrove. She paid for the night and a midnight snack before turning in. Her mind was still in conflict.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late

“Why?”

A familiar nightmare of blood and shock visited her that night. A half-flayed humanoid face would lock its one blue eye and vacant eyehole with her and ask her that question. She could never find an answer for it, never knowing the reason for inquiry, but horrified when it didn’t like her silence. If it didn’t get an answer, it would open its disjointed jaw and try to swallow her.

Skathi jolted in a cold sweat. This dream had been around ever since she first struck out into the wild. It wouldn’t come every night, but often when she was worn from the day before. She didn’t know the origin of it and thought it might be connected to why she left home in the first place. She didn’t remember it, so it was more out of gut-feeling than fact.

Coming back to reality, Skathi noticed she was in an unfamiliar building. More alarming was her fur and gambeson were gone, replaced by a common red dress. The thought of someone seeing her naked was unnerving, especially when she realized she’d been scrubbed, the dirt on her skin missing. At least they chose the right clothes. She liked the color red.

She got up but felt sudden pain course through her body. Old wounds seemed to have reopened recently and muscles were still sore from the day before. She felt around and found bandages around her familiar injuries, whoever had been caring for her clearly having been there. She wanted to thank them, even if she didn’t feel like talking much that day.

A hot smell caught her attention. She looked around and found a pot of stew on the fire. Starved, she took a bowl of it and gulped it down at once. She didn’t pay attention to taste; she was so hungry. So much so that she took a second bowl. By then, she found it meaty and well spiced. Thank whoever lived here for their kindness.

Skathi found a pair of shoes that seemed to fit and gloves no one was using, so put them on and sauntered out the door. She looked out and saw a small town with straw roofs and simply dressed folk. This rustic air reminded her of home, a place she hadn’t thought of in years. She didn’t remember the town’s name, but this place seemed a lot like it.

She made her way to the main road in the town when she saw a woman in a green dress waving at her with familiarity. Skathi wasn’t sure why the woman took an interest in her and walked over to her. She seemed to work at a lumber mill, operating the machinery without pause. When the outsider crossed the bridge over, the lumberjack raised her axe like a greeting.

“Glad to see you’re awake!” she called, “After what you’ve been through, it’s no surprise you slept in.”

Skathi took a seat on a tree stump. “What happened last night?” she asked.

“Well, when Ralof brought you in, you were dragging your leg and delirious,” the lumberjack explained, “he explained what happened yesterday and we put you in the spare bed.” She continued, “But before we did that, I insisted those flea-ridden pelts be tossed out and burned.”

Skathi had an arm to her chest at this. She didn’t want people to see her naked like that, no matter the reason. They would surely be disgusted at the sight, like in horrible memories she felt instead of remembered clearly.

“Don’t worry,” the lumberjack added, “Ralof and the other two men in the house promptly left to give us some privacy.”

Little comfort.

“I’ve met women like you,” she remarked, “You don’t scare me, not even slightly.”

Skathi was disbelieving. She wasn’t like most women, even without the scars or furs. For someone to know her secret and not be disgusted was a relief. Thank whatever the god may be for this woman.

“When I got a good look at you, it seemed some of your wounds had reopened,” the lumberjack continued, “I spent a pretty penny on a potion to heal you, but they seemed to work.”

“They still hurt,” Skathi said.

“Well, it’ll go away with some rest,” she remarked, walking over to the outsider, “My name’s Gerdur.”

“I’m Skathi Wolf-Runner,” the latter replied.

“Wolf-Runner,” Gerdur repeated, “How’d you get a name like that?”

“I’m not sure,” Skathi admitted.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure where she got that name. She assumed it was a family name, but she couldn’t remember her parents’ names. In fact, she couldn’t remember her parents most of the time or anything from her time in civilization. She hoped it wasn’t too important.

“Listen,” Gerdur said, “If what Ralof said was true, we’re going to need guards around here. We’re vulnerable if a Dragon attacks us. If you could get the Jarl of Whiterun to send us some protection, it’d be much appreciated.”

Skathi nodded. She naturally assumed she was the only one who didn’t have something going on that kept her from leaving or that her being an outsider made her a prime candidate for whatever dangerous things need doing. Not a lot in life she would want, but that’s what happens when you retreat from the rest of the world.

Of course, she was going to need armor. Her furs and gambeson were surely ash by now, and we unfit to wear anyway. On the way to the mill, she’d spotted a smithy, so she figured that was a decent place to look. Of course, she couldn’t make her way over there on an empty stomach.

“Any place I can get supplies?” Skathi asked.

“Well, Alvor’s forge is a good place to get weapons and armor,” Gerdur explained, “but for things outside of that, there’s the Riverwood Trader. And if you don’t have any money, you can help yourself to whatever’s around the house, but don’t take from the purse.”

The outsider nodded again and got up to leave the mill. She went over to the smithy and caught a good look at him. His yellow beard was lined with soot and it peppered the rest of his body. His workplace was littered with steel and iron creations, some old and some new.

“You gawking or are you looking to buy something?” Alvor asked.

“Sorry,” Skathi replied, “I’m in need of some arms and armor.”

“Well,” the smithy said, “got anything in mind?”

Skathi thought about it. She doubted she could take to steel or iron all that well, so it would need to be light. She also doubted she had enough to pawn to for anything fancy. She lost her bow and arrows in the business with the Stormcloaks, so she would need replacements.

“You got any light armor?” she asked.

Alvor thought about it for a moment. He took a glove off and put a hand under her arm beside her chest. Skathi quickly stepped back at this unwanted contact, but the smithy seemed to get what he wanted.

“Apologizes,” he said, “I do that with anyone who’s looking for armor. I think I’ve got something for you.”

Alvor put a mail shirt on the table. “I make these for guards, but they usually bring their own,” he explained. “You’ll need a gambeson to wear it comfortably, but it’s yours for 75 Septims.”

And thus, they reached an impasse. Skathi hadn’t the coin for it but needed the armor. She knew stealing it was unacceptable, so you need to sell some things to afford the mail.

“I’ll be right back with the gold,” she said before leaving.

The outsider sauntered over to the Riverwood Trader, an easy feat with the gold scales out front. The building seemed familiar, frighteningly so, but she had never been to it in her life. She found herself witness to an argument between an Imperial man and woman. Well, she presumed they were Imperials. She wasn’t good at identify races.

“Well, one of us has to do something!” the woman yelled.

“I said no!” the man barked, “No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!”

“Well what are you going to do then, huh?” she retorted, “Let's hear it!”

“We are done talking about this!” he stated.

About then, he spotted Skathi, a little shaken from the conversation. “Oh,” he said as he cleared his throat, “a customer. Sorry you had to hear that.”

The outsider shook herself back to the world. “I’ve got a few things to sell,” she replied.

Skathi set out several items. Mountain flowers to worn daggers, animal teeth to wormwood. Miscellaneous junk she’d collected over the years in packrat fashion in case she ever needed them. She got a good 275 Septims for them, more than what she would assume. Skathi took the gold and headed off to buy her armor.

Once the mail and gambeson were paid for, she bought a longbow and a quiver of arrows. She also bought a knife, if only for herself. Ready for the road, Skathi set out for Whiterun.

* * *

Jeanne slept in due to the strange change in times between High Rock and Skyrim. It felt like the Nords’ land was an hour ahead of them, so it turned to dawn at what felt like the morning twilight. She finally sauntered out when the innkeeper was pounding on her door, telling her even the Falmer were awake by now.

Coffee was off the table. The Empire voided their trade contracts with Hammerfell when they left, but Redguard and Breton contract were ancient. As Skyrim was part of the Empire, they probably wouldn’t have coffee. Well, the side of Skyrim she was in wasn’t part of the Empire anymore, but she doubted that they would be drafting contracts this early in the independence process.

Instead of that, she was given a Nord mead, locally brewed. Tasted like honey and piss, but it woke her up. Was it a good woken up? No, it felt like being frightened out of the hiccups by a madman. For balance, she snacked on a snowberry crostata.

She wandered into the attic and saw two of the Stormcloaks from last night, Mikaela and Ravani, she believed. They were warming their hands over the fire, damp gloves set on the hearth just far enough to be warm without burning.

“You two are back?” Jeanne inquired, “Did you fight the dragon?”

A tired Ravani turned to the Breton and explained, “We didn’t see a dragon, just a company of Imperial riders.”

“And Ulfric?” she asked further.

“I think he’s in the Hall of Kings,” the Dunmer continued, turning back to the flame.

Jeanne shoved what was left of her crostata in her mouth and bolted off to the citadel. Ulfric was probably going to be busy all day and any time she could claim for herself was precious. She ran across the snow-covered stone of Windhelm and was soon in the shadow of the center of power in the city, guards stopping her from tripping over herself.

As she entered the Hall, she was met by the sculped heads of hawks, watching over her like gargoyles that even followed her here. The throne room was decorated with the blue and gold heraldry of a bear. Before her was a long table flanked by benches and holding much food and drink. At the stone throne, a fine Nord stood beside it, as Ulfric could be heard elsewhere.

Jeanne quietly tiptoed to the room this discussion was coming from. She peaked her head in to see who was talking. There were two Nords, one in hide armor and a bear-head helm, the other in black furs and mail. From their discussion, she assumed Ulfric was the latter.

“Balgruuf won't give us a straight answer,” the bear-head warrior fumed.

“He's a true Nord,” Ulfric stated, “He'll come around.”

“Don't be so sure of that,” the warrior retorted, “We've intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."

“And what would you have me do?” the jarl asked as he cocked his head.

“If he's not with us, he's against us.”

“He knows that. They all know that.”

The bear-head warrior gritted his teeth. “How long are you going to wait?”

“You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message,” Ulfric said like he understood his comrade well enough.

“If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet.”

The rebel Jarl smirked. “Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement,” he asked, “don't you think?”

Ulfric had a drowning presence. You couldn’t help but hear and hang on every word he said. His words spoke to a primal standard that worked their way into your head and told you to follow his path. It was understandable he was jarl, as the Nords would elect their leaders and it was obvious why he was picked to lead them.

“So, we're ready to start this war in earnest then?” bear-head grinned.

“Soon,” Ulfric replied as he left the war room to the court.

As he left the war room, Jeanne tried to act normally as though she didn’t spy on them. She probably failed, but no one paid her any mind.

“I still say you should take them all out like you did Deadking Torygg,” bear-head remarked, following his Jarl.

“Torygg was merely a message to the other Jarls,” Ulfric explained as he approached his throne, “Whoever we replace them with will need the support of our armies.”

Jeanne remembered the High King of Skyrim was named Torygg, but she hadn’t heard anything about his death. This was new to her. Had Ulfric killed the king? The Breton hoped it was in honorable combat, not an assassination. Her father taught her that an assassin gets your enemies out of the way, but it’s easier to say no to you when they know you’re their enemy. Duels are public.

“We're ready when you are,” bear-head stated.

“Things hinge on Whiterun,” Ulfric remarked, “If we can take the city without bloodshed all the better. But if not,” he trailed off with a grim expression. Anyone could finish that sentence.

“The people are behind you,” bear-head replied.

“Many I fear still need convincing.”

“Then let them die with their false kings.”

Ulfric sighed. “We've been soldiers for a long time,” he recounted, “We know the price of freedom. The people are still weighing things in their hearts.”

Bear-head gritted his teeth. “What's left of Skyrim to wager?”

“They have families to think of.”

True enough. If someone didn’t want to orphan their children or widow their husband or wife, they had the right not to join them. Jeanne had little to lose.

“How many of their sons and daughters follow your banner?” Bear-head growled, “We are their families.”

“Well put, friend,” the Jarl nodded, though tokenlike, “Tell me, Galmar, why do you fight for me?”

The bear-head warrior, called Galmar apparently, looked confused. “I'd follow you into the depths of Oblivion,” he answered, “you know that.”

“Yes, but why do you fight? If not for me, what then?”

“I'll die before elves dictate the fates of men. Are we not one in this?”

Ulfric took a breath. “I fight for the men I've held in my arms,” he proclaimed to the room of six people, “dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight because I must.”

And finally, he took a seat in his throne. With what he’s been through, he may yet deserve it.

“Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric,” Galmar responded, “And that's why you will be High King. But the day words are enough, will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed.”

“I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn,” Ulfric smiled fondly.

“Aye. But in the meantime, we have a war to plan.”

This discussion over, Jeanne saw her opportunity to approach the Jarl. He scowled like a scurvy criminal was brought into the house and shat on the rug. Perhaps that was to be expected.

"Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without summons,” he barked, “Why are you here?”

Jeanne stood her ground as well as she could. “I wish to join the Stormcloaks,” she explained, a little frightened by the Nord.

His eyes glared. “Why?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure if it was because she was a Breton or not, but he didn’t seem to tolerate her presence well. “I see your plight to worship Talos without persecution and sympathize,” she stated, “I wish to lend my talents as a mage to the cause.”

He didn’t seem moved. To demonstrate, she held out her hand and a small flame appeared. Glowing as bright as a hearth fire, it crackled and sparked, but never burnt her hand or singed her sleeve. She maintained it for a whole minute. One doesn’t manage this without practice.

A smile grew over Ulfric’s face. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said, “Speak to Galmar in the war room; he’ll size you up and see where to best use your talents.”

Jeanne nodded and left to where the Jarl came from. Inside, there was a table with a map of Skyrim on it. Several tiny flags, blue, green and red, where set atop it in specific locations. Above it was Galmar. He was a hairy man with, that was certain, with hair on his arms and on his face that was groomed well enough, but barely held back.

“So,” he spoke, “Why’s a Breton want to fight for Skyrim?”

“So, you only take Nords?” Jeanne snarked. Why did it seem like everyone hated her? Was it really because she was a Breton?

"You mistake me. I'm not saying no,” Galmar explained, not easing up in his stance, “just wondering about your intentions. We're not looking for sellswords. The Stormcloaks need dedicated men and women who're devoted to the cause and willing to die for it."

“That's why I'm here,” she repeated, annoyed, “I want to join.”

"Alright,” he replied, “But before I can put you to use, I need to know how much you can take. I have a little test for you."

“What kind of test?” she asked.

"The kind men use to measure themselves," he explained with reverence, "I'm sending you to Serpent Stone Island. If you survive, you pass. If you die, well, you weren't going to be much use to me anyway."

“Does every recruit have to do this?” Jeanne asked. Surely this wasn’t normal.

"Only the ones I'm not sure about,” Galmar stated, “This will prove your abilities, but more importantly, it will prove your commitment."

The Breton nodded and turned to leave. She came here to join a righteous rebellion and ended up feeling judged and was now off to live or die by a test she wasn’t even able to study for. She felt she should have listened to her mother and gone into politics. At least the chance of death was halved. That’s still more likely than childbirth, but it’s still safer than this insanity.

“One more thing,” Galmar added, “I’ll be sending you with a trainer. A Dunmer named Faren. She’s good with the sword and that’s something you’ll need to know.”

Great, now she had someone to watch her die.

* * *

Skathi’s walk to Whiterun took most of the afternoon. She set out at about noon and saw the brick and log walls of the city by dusk. A few wolves came in between her, but she dispatched them with bow and knife. Besides that, it was an altogether pleasant walk through the delightfully warm weather of the lowlands.

The city itself looked like it had seen its fair share of war and age. The grime and moss of these ancient walls was thick. If an alchemist were to lick them, they could identify several ingredients they needed and how many could be used to cure the diseases they would get from such action. They still seemed sturdy, though Skathi had no experience with stone walls, so perhaps they’d fall if she leaned on them. They did not.

She walked up the draw bridge and toward the gate into the city proper, where she was met by two guards. They wore armor much like the Stormcloaks she’d met before, but yellow clad and a scaled cuirass. The sigil on their shields was a horse’s head, another difference from the Stormcloaks with their bear’s head. Skathi wondered how many differences there were between hold guard armors.

“Stop right there,” one of the guards ordered, “The city is under lockdown while the Dragon’s about.”

Skathi wasn’t well experienced it dealing with most things, but she knew keeping an eye out was the least they could do. It wouldn’t help; the Dragon could fly over their walls and burn them all. She’d seen it and she could never choose to remove it from her memory.

“I came from Helgen,” she stated, “I’m here to warn the jarl of the dragon’s path.”

The guard seemed to think it over. “Alright,” he said, “Take the main path to Dragonsreach; you’ll find the jarl there.”

With that, they opened the gates into Whiterun. The city was made of old buildings of wood and brick with a fresh coat of lacquer to hide the repairs done to them over the years. They were tightly packed together in some places, but they left wide gaps elsewhere and smaller paths filled them up. It was if it was not meant to be a city, but slowly became one. It would explain why it was built on a hill, but why here?

The first thing Skathi saw was a man in an Imperial uniform badgering a blacksmith. At first, she was terrified that he was going to arrest her again, but since there was no way to identify her and little reason to compared to Ulfric or his soldiers, she calmed down a little. Their conversation was around how the Legion needed weaponry and money was no object toward this objective. The blacksmith didn’t think she could do it on her own, but still agreed to do it.

Skathi sneaked past them to the main market. People were still doing some shopping, but just some things for tomorrow or a midnight snack. There was one guy, a Redguard, that was just swaggering around, bragging about how he owned a farm and his produce was far better than the vendors. Needless to say, no one had a pleasant conversation with him.

With nothing she needed here, save an apple to stave off scurvy, she climbed the stairs up into a lovely garden that split into a few different areas. One was into a neighborhood with houses, perhaps the very first of the city. Another led up into a mead hall that looked like it used an oversized canoe as a roof. The last led toward a great hall, made of wood as old as the ancient trees of forgotten forests built around a keep that looked even older.

To the side, Skathi found a priestly looking person with a sermon as loud as the winds of the Jerall Mountains. He spoke of Talos Stormcrown, the man who was Tiber Septim that ascended to divinity. He spoke of how the Empire has abandoned their faith to conform to their new Elven overlords and that the Stormcloaks had all the right to they needed to rebel. Skathi found this man in need of a few good punches.

She ignored her violent impulses and climbed up the steps to what she presumed was Dragonsreach. Now that she was closer, it was clear this could only be the jarl’s keep. Thought mostly wooden, it seemed it could take dragon fire and still stand strong.  
She entered the keep and beheld the ancient structure around her. It was a marvel to behold. She lost herself in the architecture until a Dunmer in leather armor pulled a sword on her.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption?” the Dark Elf woman asked, “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

Taken aback, the outsider explained, “I’m Skathi Wolf-Runner. I have news from Helgen. About the dragon attack.”

The Dunmer had a look of reservation about her and put away her sword. "Well, that explains why the guards let you in,” she said, “Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak to you personally."

Skathi approach the man on the throne. He wore fine clothes too big for his body, but they still fit his regal air. He had a hardened look about him, like he had made up his opinion of you the moment you walked in. Born over the sign of the Warrior, surely. He had just come out of a conversation with presumably one of his advisors and fixed his eyes on this stranger that came to his court.

“So,” he inquired, “You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

Skathi held the other side of her belt tight. “A dragon destroyed Helgen,” she reported to the best of her ability, “Gerdur is afraid Riverwood is next.”

“Gerdur?” he echoed, “Owns the lumber mill, if I’m not mistaken. Pillar of the community. Not prone to flights of fancy.”

“Yes,” Skathi repeated, “I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head.

"Really?” Balgruuf inquired, “You're certainly,” he paused, “forthright about your criminal past. But it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now. What I want to know is what exactly happened at Helgen.”

The Jarl then turned to his advisor. “What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

“My lord,” the Dunmer spoke up, “we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains-.”

Before she could finish, Proventus spoke up, saying the Jarl of some place Skathi didn’t catch would think this would be a threat to his people. Balgruuf hardly seemed to take in that information, less so than Skathi had, if that could be believed.

“Enough!” he ordered, “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” the Dunmer, apparently named Irileth, replied.

Proventus sputtered. “We should not-.”

“I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” the Jarl barked.

His advisor frowned. “If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties,” he said as he left the throne’s side.

“That would be best,” Balgruuf remarked.

He turned to Skathi and smiled. “Well done,” he said, “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” He took out a scaled cuirass like the one his guards wore with fur boots and gauntlet. “Here,” he said, “take this as a small token of my esteem."

“Thanks,” Skathi replied.

"There is another thing you could do for me,” Balgruuf continued, “Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” He stood up and started to walk towards room on the side of court, “Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and rumors of dragons.”

“Sir,” she replied, “I survived a dragon attack, not slayed it.”

“Are you kidding me?” he responded, “With arms like those, you have to be a good enough archer to bring it down.”

Admittedly, Skathi did have strong arms. Years of the wilderness made her a hardy woman, as she needed to be. Her practice with the bow came with the need for a brawny upper body. It made her feel uncomfortably masculine, but she would ignore those thoughts, as she needed to survive.

She followed the jarl to a landfill of an office. Papers and crystals and tomes were littered around the room with no patter or reason. The desk at the center was only slightly better for having a map in the center that seemed like it was supposed to be there, but the rest was ridiculously untidy. At the desk, a wizard in a blue robe who was reading now stood up, unphased by his surroundings.

"So, the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?” Farengar inquired with probing eyes. After uncomfortably studying Skathi, he said, “Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons.”

He thought about it further. “Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me,” he said, “Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

Wanting to be through with this, she quickly inquired, “Alright, where am I going and what am I fetching?”

A smile crept on the wizard’s face. "Straight to the point, eh? No need for tedious hows and whys. I like that. Leave those details to your betters, am I right?"

“So, what do you need me to do?” Skathi particularly blurted.

"I began to search for information about dragons” he exposited, “Where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

He continued, gesturing to a map of the hold “I ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, a "Dragonstone," said to contain a map of dragon burial sites.”

He pointed to a particularly point on the map near Riverwood. “Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred in the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

Skathi nodded and left. She retired to the inn, the Bannered Mare. She bought room and warm food for the night and turned it. Tomorrow, she would set out for Bleak Falls Barrow.

* * *

Rena had a long time. In chasing Ulfric, they found themselves getting ambushed by a company of archers from the south, presumably the Rift. They barely managed to get out of it before they found themselves on the wrong side of the boarder. They spent the night and day trying to escape the Rift. It was horrific.

The Stormcloak guerrillas were obvious to mention, but the wildlife played its part as well. Wolves would maim a soldier, maybe kill him, before their comrade killed it or chased it off. The bears were another thing, taking out three or four in a single attack. They were disused to fighting animals.

She was still thankful for a few things. For one, they did not encounter a giant or a dragon, which would surely lead to devastating death upon them. For another, Knight Ansgar was fierce enough to keep the company together through example. Maybe they would’ve survived such beasts as a giant or dragon with him at the front.

Rena mulled it over breakfast stew. They just threw some dried meat and vegetables they had on hand, but it was enough with what was left of the company. Better than potato soup. ‘round fifty Legionnaires were left, herself the only one from Helgen. She was the only one left.

Knight Ansgar was in the medicine tent, recovering with another ten of the soldiers. He was the only one who wore steel armor, the rest were scouts in leather jerkins. Throwing himself into as many fights as he did, Rena was surprised he wouldn’t be discharged for his injuries.

Herself? She was tired. She had only gotten sleep last night and not the night before. Even then, she did not rest well, adrenaline telling her something was just around the corner. By the time she finally felt comfortable, it was three hours before dawn. The Legion would kill her, one way or another.

She was hesitant to think that. Her life was forfeited to the Empire, something she knew for months now. She wondered if it was truly something worth dying for. The Thalmor may be good enough reason, but what about her life? Would it matter if she left? Desertion was looking pretty good where she was standing.

“Excuse me,” spoke a voice like a river, “Why are you in Whiterun Hold?”

Rena looked up and saw a handsome woman, tall and strapping. She was wearing braided locks of long black hair and common armor atop pale skin that look like it was roughed up by the wild, a bow and full quiver over her shoulder. Her face and body were androgynously shaped, but Rena could tell she was a woman. If not, Dibella’s work had touched this man’s face to make him beautiful.

They had camped in the shadow of Whiterun out of exhaustion rather than alliance or spite. They knew they were in outside the Eastmarch and Stormcloak territory, but not exactly where. Sargent Sorratar said it was fine, but most could tell he was just as tired and didn’t care, just like everyone else. When they woke up the next morning, they took one look at the stone walls of the city and decided they were going to savor their time here before the jarl’s men came to shoo them off.

“We were tired,” Rena explained and nothing else.

The woman just nodded and said, “Sounds about right.”

There was a small silence between them. “So,” Rena spoke up, “you with the jarl or someone else?”

“No,” the woman explained, “I’m just on an errand and most everyone in Whiterun is looking at you funny. I just thought I’d check you out.”

She looked like she was fishing for something to say. She did not seem used to talking to people. Unusual, but not unwelcome. Rena always found they were more likely to get to the point, but also less likely to keep to a topic. At least a conversation was never boring, if disorganized.

“I’m Skathi,” the woman introduced herself, holding out her hand awkwardly.

“Rena,” the Legionnaire replied, shaking her hand.

“I’m going to Bleak Falls Barrow,” Skathi explained, “There’s something the court wizard needs for the fight against the dragon.”

“Need any help with that?” Rena asked.

Skathi seemed taken aback. “I don’t know,” she said nervously, “I’m not good with people, especially soldiers.”

That was fair. Few trusted the Legion, especially in Skyrim. She heard of Imperial soldiers being drunkards, murders and rapists in when their overseers were not paying attention. Never did she hear of their punishments, nor did these rumors come from anyone in the ranks. She heard two soldiers were killed in Helgen by citizens they victimized. Some officers could be worse. They had more power, so could have more elaborate red stains in their ledger.

“I don’t blame you,” Rena said, “Honestly, I’m pretty tired; the offer was mostly token.”

“Yeah,” Skathi noted. And she left, having nothing else to say.

Rena wondered if it was a good idea to let her go. People that went to Bleak Falls Barrow could die from bandits that roosted there or spiders that nested deeper in. If there was something that could help against the dragon, it was surely in the blackest sarcophagus in the darkest crypt in the barrow. Skathi would need help.

The soldier swallow what was left in her bowl and ran off to healing tent. She found Ansgar, bandaged and beaten from his time on the road. He still seemed more powerful than some of the healthy men about the camp.

“Lieutenant Donton,” he acknowledged, “What have you to report?”

“Permission for a joint operation with the Whiterun Guard?” she asked, stiffy.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s the nature of this operation?” he inquired.

“Scavenging in Bleak Falls Barrow,” she reported.

“That old tomb?” he asked, “What do they want there?”

“Something they believe could help with the dragon crisis,” she stated.

Without three moments passing, he commanded, “Go. Take who or whatever you wish but do it and do it now.”

Rena could not leave the tent faster. She grabbed her equipment and mounted her horse, galloping down the road. She knew the path to Bleak Falls shadowed Riverwood, so rode south. Skathi had strangely gotten ahead of her, despite being on foot.

Still, it did not take long to find the woman. She looked behind her, saw the Imperial soldier riding up to her and nocked an arrow in her bow.

“Stand down, milady,” Rena warned, “I’ve been allowed to help you in your quest.”

Skathi put the arrow pack. “Well, if that’s all,” she said, “Is the horse in gonna be in issue on the side of the mountain?”

“Only going down; they’re oddly good at climbing the damn things,” Rena remarked truthfully. Skyrim had the strangest horses on this continent. “You wanna ride?” she asked.

Skathi looked nervous. “I’ve never been on a horse before,” she admitted.

“It won’t be that hard,” Rena said, “Just hold tight and try not to squirm.”

Skathi look blankly at the horse. After a moment, she walked towards it and roughly climbed on top. The mount moved slightly, and the woman grabbed onto Rena like the mast on a sinking ship. The soldier patted her passenger’s shoulder with a little smile, taken by the adorable panic. She slowly road up the road to Bleak Falls Barrow.

* * *

Jeanne was unused to the weather of Skyrim’s tundra. Windhelm was said to be the coldest city in the province, but at least the pyres, fire pits and hearths kept things warm. The roads through Winterhold were not so luck as to be lit.

But of course, the coldest company was the Dunmer opposite her. Ravani started no conversation between them and wouldn’t say much to any question asked. Jeanne tried to engage her, but the Breton soon discovered it was entirely futile.

Eventually, the travelers came across a fort by the road. It didn’t interrupt the path but was positioned in such a way as to impossible to travel past without being in rang of the archers. Fortunately, it was occupied by Stormcloak soldiers, so Ravani turning into the gate wasn’t as questionable. Well, it wasn’t questionable beyond, “Why?”

Ravani tied up her horse and seemed to expect Jeanne to do the same. Being a noble of High Rock, the Breton was used to doing this. That done, the Dunmer approached another man wearing a bear head as a hat. Jeanne wondered if there was a trend that she wasn’t aware of.

“Lieutenant, I’m Ravani Faren of Eastmarch,” she introduced, “I’ll need lodging in your facilities for the next three hours.”

The officer looked behind Ravani toward Jeanne. “So, you’re finally taking a lover?” he inquired, “Of all your options, I didn’t expect this little whelp.”

Jeanne’s face turned red, unused to sexual discussions. It wasn’t as though the idea of taking a Dunmer for a lover was unthinkable, especially her, but not right now. Ravani turned her heard around to catch the Breton and turned back to the officer, hard expression unchanging. Okay, so maybe right now was fine with her.

“I’ll never take a lover, Maularr,” Ravani stated, “Least of all that little whelp.” She continued, “I just need to use the training yards.”

Maularr took another look at Jeanne. What was so interesting about her?

“And then up to Serpent Stone Island?” the lieutenant inquired, “You’ll need three years to get that pudgy little girl battle ready.”

Jeanne didn’t like that. She’d had issues with her weight for years, from when she was young to now. Whenever she was sick of being fat, she’d diet herself, but then her family would be concerned that wasn’t getting enough weight to still be fertile. They’d keep her at the dinner table until she ate everything on her plate.

Looking back, she wasn’t dieting properly in any event. No breads or meats, only produce and milk, was slowly killing her. Now she was a decent weight, mostly due to maintaining her muscles in preparation for joining the Stormcloaks. She didn’t want to go back, but she thought she might need some work.

“Maybe, but we are at war,” Ravani remarked, “If she’s unready, the battlefield will fix that quickly.”

“Alright,” Maularr agreed, “Head into the yard and find some training swords.”

Ravani guided Jeanne to the weapons rack and picked some blunt blades. They got out into the yard and the Dunmer stood without the impression of battle ready. Jeanne, on the other hand, remembered the fencing training she was taught to fight for herself. She took her stance, raised her blade and locked eyes with her trainer.

She seemed unimpressed. Ravani swiped the Breton’s blade, spun and smacked it out of her hand, setting the point on her throat. Within a few movements, she would’ve killed Jeanne had this been a true battle. Not something she was used to.

They tried again. Jeanne lunged her blade at Ravani, but the Dunmer smacked it way by the fuller and put the edge to the side of the Breton’s throat. They tried again. Jeanne pirouetted to slash Ravani, but the Dunmer leaped over the blade and put her own over the Breton’s head. They tried again. Jeanne charged to bring her sword down onto Ravani, but the Dunmer turned to dodge and smacked her blade on the Breton’s back. They tried again.

Jeanne was getting sick of this. For ten minutes, she hadn’t been taught anything, her only instruction being to attack her trainer. Every time, she was thoroughly defeated by Ravani’s blade reaching an unarmored spot or hitting hard enough to break her mail and gambeson. She was beginning to wonder the point of this exercise.

“Why in Oblivion are you doing this?” Jeanne fumed, “You’re not teaching me anything!”

“There’s only one thing you need to learn from this,” Ravani explained, “You will die unless you get creative.”

The Dunmer reached into her pouch and took out a blue vial with a tag that said, “Arcadia’s Cauldron, Potion of Resist Magicka.” Jeanne finally figured it out. Using the blade alone would not save her in battle; she needed to use her inherent magical abilities to gain the edge.

Ravani drank the whole potion down as they prepared for another round. Jeanne readied her blade and fire in her hand. The Dunmer charged to meet a wall fire that stood in her way. Jeanne moved around it to lunged at her trainer but found no one. Her search was interrupted by invisible arms and throw over someone’s head, smashing on the hardened snow.

The Breton looked up to see Ravani form from sudden purple and orange energies that blinked out of existence instantly. She didn’t know her trainer had magics.

“I thought you were trying to encourage me to use magic!” Jeanne yelled at the Dunmer.

“I said you should get creative,” Ravani explained, “I’m trying to get you to use everything at your disposal to win the battle. If you don’t do what’s necessary to protect yourself and everything behind you, then Aetherius won’t be waiting for your soul for long.  
Now, I’ve gotta use the chamber pot.”

The Dunmer left to the barracks, leaving Jeanne to stew, leaning on a wall. She was angry and hurt from the training. To be told how to think like a child was something no one responded well to and this was especially painful due to the literal pain her body was in. She wondered if she could just bypass all this and get the Stormcloak colors another way.

In the middle of this thought, a warm bundle of something fell into her lap. She looked up to see who could drop it, but she saw no one. Unwrapping it, she found it held a snowberry crostata, the cloth and baked good clearly coming from Candlehearth Hall. She thanked whoever lost their dessert and ate the pastry like a child.

When Ravani exited the barracks, she found Jeanne covered in red goo. “I’m not gonna turn the corner and find a chewed up dead body, am I?” she sarcastically asked.

They continued their lessons. This time, it was simple technique, not mixing magics. She figured out how to handle these broadswords in comparison to the rapiers she was used to. By the time they left the fort, Jeanne was confident she could handle herself in this hardy land of Nords and war. She hoped she wouldn’t be proven wrong.


	4. chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't that many people reading, but you might notice I'm posting this chapter a second time. That's because I post this chapter instead of the chapter that was actually supposed to be posted. Sorry, I got kinda tunnel visioned.

Skathi’s travel to the Bleak Falls Barrows was not frightening before. She was used to the idea of cleaning out a few beasts from day six of her time in the wilderness. Tombs did not scare her greatly, as the occupants were dead for at least a hundred years. But now she was scared because she was riding a horse.

Horses always scared her. Rena had offered her a ride and, not wanting to disrespect her, accepted it. In hindsight, she should have just led the horse. They were big with a mind of their own and no way of telling what they were going to do. She did not understand the appeal of these creatures. She knew they were quite beautiful creatures, but beautiful things can kill you, so she rejected the excuse.

Rena was right about the horse’s ability to climb mountains. This one rose the rock and cliffs without too great an issue. Although Skathi felt more precarious while mounted than if she were just on foot, she was still impressed.

It was not long until they found a tower, ruined from age, but still used. It seemed warriors without colors were using it as a place to roost. They could not be trusted this far out, whether worshippers of the ancient Nords or a bandit outpost, they were dangerous. Still, Skathi did not feel confident to kill them.

“See them?” Rena asked, pointing at the tower’s occupants, “They could only be bandits with their equipment.”

Skathi looked closer with her hawk-like eyes. The warriors were in bloodstained furs and hide armor, their weapons old and worn. They almost seemed liked hunters, but there was nothing to hunt in the shadow of the crypt.

“We’ll need to take them,” Rena stated, dismounting, “They’re not alerted to our presence, so we have a chance to take them by surprise.”

The soldier took a bow and quiver full of arrows from the saddle bag and crouched down by the horse. Skathi tried to dismount gracefully but fell face first into the snow. It seemed unnoticed by the bandits.

The outsider crouched next to her companion and drew her bow. Before she could nock an arrow, she was crippled with empathy. Last time she killed, something came out and told her it was wrong. It left lacking in confidence or will to fight. It was because she knew everyone had a life, even she did once, and that loved ones would mourn their deaths. She couldn’t kill when she knew it would cause pain.

“Breath,” Rena said, “Just breath. In,” she breathed, “and out,” she breathed. “If you let yourself be afraid of everything you do, you’ll never be able to do what you want or need.”

Skathi saw the choice ahead of her. She could walk away with killing anyone or kill the undesirables keeping her from the Dragonstone. But just because they undesirable, does that mean they deserve death? There are those the Nords do not want in Skyrim, not just bandits. Elves, Beast Folk, Imperials. If they were not wanted here by the authorities of this land, did they equally deserve to die?

No. Those who were not born Nord did not deserved to die for that reason alone. Those who hurt and maim without reason or conscious, they deserved to meet death more than their victims. Perhaps then, she deserved to die, but that was for later.

Skathi loosed an arrow into the closest bandit. It lodged into his chest and he fell, slowly struggling to pull the missile out as the life left him. The outsider’s shallow breaths evened and lengthened until her anxiety was lost in a waterfall.

As another one of the bandits found his comrade dead in the snow, Rena loosed another arrow their way. It lodged into his skull and he fell, dead. Yet another bandit, better armored than the others and wielding a shield, came from the tower ready for battle. The outsider and soldier loosed their arrows at him, but his shield took the missiles and he still stood.

Rena got up from her spot and drew her sword, setting her bow aside. She charged at the bandit and bashed his shield, him staggering back at the impact. He recovered just in time to block Rena’s swing at his torso. The shield was bashed into the soldier’s face, drawing blood and pushing her into snow. The bandit brought his sword down for the kill, but he stopped, Rena jamming her blade in his face, killing him instantly.

The bandit’s dead body set aside, the soldier got up, covered in blood. Skathi ran up, asking, “Are you alright?”

Rena felt around her mouth. “Torn flesh, but I still have all my teeth,” she stated, “And sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.”

The two moved into the shadow of the Barrow and saw it looming. Black stone carved into the shape of hawks’ heads stared down in judgment over all in their sight. The arches seemed empty and threatening, lacking the warmth of even Winterhold’s coldest weather. The entrance to the Barrow itself was carved into the mountain itself, surrounded by ancient markings. Ominous, they entered the crypt.

* * *

As the descended into the ancient burial, they found many enemies. There were many bandits that seemed to be here as mercenaries, but they stopped appearing after a while. They found a Frostbite spider, large but wounded, stood over the dead body of a Dunmer. He was carrying a golden claw on his person, which sparked a memory in Skathi’s head.

But their most terrifying enemy was ahead of them. They moved into the open coffins of the tomb when one of its occupants moved. Then another. And another. They rose from their final resting places, ancient weapons and skin guided by unnaturally pale blue eyes. Neither had ever found an adversary like this undead. There were many and they seemed deathless, but they would fall when Skathi hit them with bow, fist or scavenged blade. Strange.

Eventually, they came to a sealed door with images and a claw at the center. Skathi checked the golden ornament and it had caricatures of a bear, an insect and an owl. This was like the door, though they were in differing orders. When she saw if she could reorganize them, part of the stone spun and showed a different image. She rearranged the door’s caricatures until they were in the same order as the ones on the claw. It did not open, so she surmised its outline of the claw was a keyhole and use it as such. A grinding sound followed, and the way was open.

Skathi and her companion found themselves in a cave with clouded sunlight coming from great hole in the ceiling. At the center, an ebony carved sarcophagus was placed by a strange, curved wall. Even stranger was that she was drawn to the wall. She slowly walked over, and energies surrounded her, drawing her to an alien but familiar word chiseled into the stone. Her hand touched the word and the energies faded. She felt as though she had learned something, but not what.

A cracking sound burst behind her and another undead rose from the coffin, seeming greater and more powerful than the ones before. Rena stabbed it into the creature’s chest, but it did not budge. Instead, a word left his mouth and she was thrown across the room. It was not clear if she was alive or dead.

Angry, Skathi ran at the undead, barely missing his great weapon. She punched it in the head and that had more of reaction than when it was impaled. The outsider forced it to the ground and beat it through its armor. It spoke again, but the force it wielded did not throw her, only briefly phase her.

When the creature found its magic found ineffective, it swung its great axe at Skathi, breaking the scale and mail and jamming its blade into her ribs. That made her angry. She took Rena’s blade and decapitated the monster. That ended it.  
Skathi rolled over in pain. The adrenaline left her system and she was feeling her body’s damage take hold. She figured this is how she would die. As this slowly dawned on her, Rena entered her vision and held her.

“I’ve seen enough death for now,” she stated, opening a potion for healing, “I won’t lose you today.”

The fowl liquid entered Skathi’s mouth, but swallowing it let her wounds heal. She felt the pain in her ribs ease and the broken skin knit. The life returned to body and she knew that she would not die today. It still left her with a bad taste in her mouth.  
The outsider investigated the sarcophagus and found the Dragonstone, still intact after untold years. Upon inspection, several letters like the ones on the curved wall were found on this artifact. She figured it was an ancient language but why was there a nagging part of her mind that said she knew what they meant?

“Will you tell the jarl I was here with you?” Rena asked.

“Maybe,” Skathi replied.

She did not think it particularly mattered. But then again, maybe she should tell of how she went into the Barrow with her first friend.

* * *

Jeanne was finally warming up to Skyrim as she entered the late afternoon. The clouds parted as the sun grew close to the horizon’s end, covering the land in gorgeous orange. The mountain did little to cover it, but a great statue of a woman that stood taller than any did cast a shadow on the cliffs and ravines. Though still cold, the sunlight made it seem as crisp as an autumn morning in High Rock.

Her and her companion were riding down the road to Winterhold, but Ravani took a right turn down a slope, leading Jeanne to follow. They soon came to the water, full of ice and rock islands. The Breton soon figure now was the time to swim, which didn’t sound good. Water that naturally forms ice is surely too cold to even lay your feet.

“Don’t tell me we’re going swimming,” Jeanne begged.

“I am going to swim,” Ravani explained, “You are going to hold on as well as you can.”

The Dunmer then began to strip her clothes down to the skin. Jeanne couldn’t believe this was happening, as she’d never seen a naked woman. The Breton found Ravani’s gray skin wrapped around muscles most men never have, either being too brawny or too small. The scars she barred were deep and old, like someone tried to kill her when she was younger.

Jeanne wasn’t sure how to react. She had never seen the likes of this, especially a Dunmer. Of course, it probably for swimming, but what was she supposed to do? Strip? Other thoughts went through her head, but that one lingered until she was undressing herself.

“What are you doing?” Ravani asked, genuinely confused.

“Am I supposed to strip too?” Jeanne replied with a question.

“No, need your armor,” the naked Dunmer stated, “I have a potion to keep the cold out, but only one. You need it more than I do. This is your test, not mine.”

Jeanne nodded as Ravani gave her a potion. The label said, “Elgrim’s Elixirs, Potion of Resist Frost.” She drank the whole thing down and a strange feeling began to course through her veins. At the start, she felt like she just came indoors from the cold and the hearth’s heat melt away the weather’s work. Suddenly, warm sweat beat out of her and her chest was like a cooking pot. It was clear these potions weren’t meant for strolls.

As the potion’s effect set in, Ravani took a jug from her satchel bag. Inside was the rank smell of goose fat the Breton knew from every North Wind’s Prayer when she brought to help her father pick out the feast’s main course. The Dunmer coated her body with it, from arms to legs to every inch until she was the greasiest thing you couldn’t eat.

“Hang onto my neck,” she stated.

The minute Jeanne held onto Ravani was when she immediately regretted her decisions in life. If you can’t figure out why holding an unnaturally oily body, do it yourself and see how that feels or how your clothing now feels. You’ll need a lot of bleach to get the goose fat out.

Ravani slowly submerged herself and Jeanne, then quickly stroked through cold water with great speed. It was hard to keep her mouth shut through whole thing, but her nose was harder to close. Salty sea water forced itself through her throat and lungs, but their cold didn’t penetrate her. At least the potion was working.

Jeanne almost didn’t notice when they came to land, only her hard coughs to force the water out. Once her breathing evened out, she looked up and found the dead body of a Nord with a broken neck. She panicked and almost went back in the water, but Ravani held an oily hand to her mouth, having gotten free of her hold.

“Don’t panic,” she whispered, “The island we’re one has a number of bandits.” She looked behind her to the dead body. “He found us, so I killed him,” she continued, “I’ll kill the rest. You don’t need blood on your hands just yet.”

Ravani snuck over to the to the body and looted a bow and quiver off it. Jeanne was in a haze from this. She had never seen a corpse before. Her parents never took her to crypts, there were no deaths in the family she was present for, no one killed anyone around her, including herself. The sight of it was sobering. It was in that moment, mortality finally cemented itself in her mind.

She didn’t pay attention as Ravani slew the bandits. Occasionally, she would look over and see an arrow fatally pierce someone and she would turn away. She couldn’t bear to see death at this time. She knew she would have to slay her amount of human beings when the time came, and her heart would ache at the thought. If only to be in a war where she could not slay husbands, wives, sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters or whatever else made you family.

Soon Ravani returned without the bow or quiver but blood on her hands. She had a look of pure empathy as she held out a book over to Jeanne.

“Found this in the shipwreck,” she explained, “A ship called The Pride of Tel Vos wrecked here. It’s someone’s journal and you’ve got pockets.” She looked in the Breton’s eyes and said, “They deserve to be remembered.”

After a small rest around the fire, the two got up to swim again. The goose fat was thinner, but still applied. Jeanne held on and Ravani once again swam with a speed like she was outrunning the Stag Prince. This took longer than before, but not because the Dunmer slowed.

But soon enough, they reached Serpent Stone Island. Covered in snow and monoliths atop a hill, this small land mass felt as older than Windhelm’s ancient structure. Whatever purpose they served thousands of years ago forgotten, they were now a proving ground for the Stormcloaks.

Feeling the cold air, Jeanne summoned fire and threw it onto the ground in front of Ravani. “Warm up, ma’am,” she ordered, “You’ll need it.”

The flame grew into a makeshift campfire without wood or kindling. The Dunmer sat her naked form down and absorbed the heat happily. At least one person was going to be happy.

Jeanne scaled the hill and drew her sword as a creature appeared. It was ice strung together on an invisible string around a monstrous skull made of the material. It moved like a fish, but there was no water to justify its wriggle. It was hard to believe it existed, but it did, and it was clear the Breton would need to kill it.

She tried to slash it with her blade, but the edge barely touched it. Instead, it wriggled and whipped Jeanne, tearing her gambeson but not her skin. She tried again but missed again. It spat strange ice and as it hit the snow, the spit jut icicles out that scratched at the Breton’s legs.

It was time to show her true abilities. From Jeanne’s hand, flames burst out and was slung the wraith. It fled, but soon spat more ice. She stepped back to avoid the attacked and summoned a fireball in her hand. She threw at the wraith and prayed that her hands and eyes could guide it to the icy skull. It struck and the ice broke apart, shattering across the frozen snow.

Jeanne took a moment to realize the gravity of what just happened. She had proven herself a Stormcloak in one of their company. If she maintained her convictions, she would now be a soldier for Skyrim’s independence. If not, she had only slain an ice wraith, still an accomplishment. She prayed she would have the strength to slay only those who needed to die for the cause, never the innocent or unnecessary. If not, Arkay take her now.

**“Dovahkiin!” ******

****

A sudden thunderous voice had cried this from the sky. It rumbled and shook the ground and echo for miles on end. It sounded ancient and alien. Whatever it meant, she only hoped it was not unfair news or the beginning of the world’s end.

“What in Dagon’s ballsack have you done?” Ravani asked like she just shat on the fine rug.

****

Jeanne doubted this had anything to do with her.

****

* * *

****

Rena didn’t follow Skathi to Whiterun. She went as far as the road took her before diverging to the Imperial camp. It was pointless to tempt fate and enter the city when, as a member of the Legion, she wasn’t invited. They had remained neutral for now, so she still would not do it if she were a Stormcloak, as impossible as that was.

When she returned to the camp in the late afternoon, she noticed everyone on edge. No one was making small talk; everyone had their swords within an arm’s reach. They all seemed to be watching the center tent with interest. That was Knight Ansgar’s tent, should he be out of the medicine tent.

Rena dismounted and approached the lodging, peaking in to find Whiterun guards. This was expected, given the quartermaster’s mistake. He wasn’t even a real quartermaster; just some guy they threw the position on. They didn’t want Legion forces in their hold, lest the Stormcloaks think it meant Balgruuf was taking a side. Well, they were in their hold.

“We need more time to rest!” Ansgar barked.

“That doesn’t change that you shouldn’t be here,” their commander barked back.

“How will we leave?” the captain inquired, “Do you suppose we crawl? Someone of us can’t do anything else and we don’t have any wagons.”

“That was your mistake.”

“No, Caius,” Ansgar explained, “Our mistake was thinking you had enough of a heart to let a few squatters on your land.”

“So, you admit you shouldn’t be here?” Caius propped.

This question was followed by a punch square in the face. Ansgar left the Whiterun commander on the floor, nose bleeding and broken. His fellow guards drew their blades and so did the soldiers outside the tent to meet this, entering the lodging to defend their captain.

At this point, they entered a stand still. The Nords couldn’t hope to win this fight, but neither could the Imperials. The former would certainly die from overwhelming numbers, but their healthy and more numerous brethren would surely notice their disappearance and descend upon their killers without regard. Death would be brought upon them.

And so, it was.

Shattering through the air, a roar caught their ears. It was surely unfamiliar to all, but Rena. It was the sound of a dragon. It was here.

“Dragon!” she screamed and ran out and away from the tent.

Rena searched the skies for where the dragon was. If there was a chance that they could end this crisis, she would gladly throw her life away in pursuit of this. She didn’t care the acclaim she or the Legion would gain from accomplishing this, only that it should be slain. It was a danger to the Empire, and it was her duty to protect it from this beast.

She spotted it as it soared toward the camp from the west. The soldier watched the black wings glide over it and unleash fire upon them, screams to follow. It slashed a swath of flame and heat through the tents before pulling out.

Under better lighting, it was clear the dragon had silver scales, not ebony stone. Rena saw this and thunderous dread wrought her heart. There was more than one dragon.

One dragon had taken a town fortified with stone walls to the torch without a single arrow piercing its hide. Two, they could take any of the hold capitals without strong enough resistance. More and they would overrun Skyrim and perhaps all Tamriel. There was no hope for Men, Mer or Beast Folk.

The thought frightened Rena but did not deter her. In fact, it motivated her to kill the beast.

“Archers!” she ordered, “Loose every arrow you have on the dragon! Pick up the quivers of the dead when they fall. Do not retreat or fear until we have no arrows left!”

As the dragon made a second attack, fifty arrows total flew into the air and struck the dragon’s hide. They did not pierce or jam, the shafts breaking in half on the scales. It unleashed another blast of fire on the camp and the heat threw her back.

Death surrounded Rena. Burning skin, hair and leather filled the air with a horrifying stench. Soldier covered with flames shrieked and scrambled around, trying to do something so that they may live. This was the desolation of a dragon’s power. Skyrim was doomed.

**“Fus ro dah!” ******

A shout of unnatural power thundered through the sky and struck the dragon in the air. Rena looked around to see where it came from, only to turn and find Captain Ansgar. His breath was deep, his two-hander drawn, and his steely eyes stared at the beast as if to dare it. 

The dragon landed in the middle of the camp, felling several tents. Ansgar charged the beast, bringing his blade down onto its heading, connecting. Its hide didn’t break. 

**“Fus ro dah!” ******

****

He shouted again in its face. The dragon was taken aback, but mostly annoyed. It took Ansgar in its mouth and threw him beyond sight. It turned its sight to Rena, staring into her soul with gilded eyes, until a horn that wasn’t Imperial blew from somewhere else. It lifted and flew away from the camp.

Rena fell onto her back. If the dragon wouldn’t kill her, the ash burning her lungs would. She coughed harder and harder until she threw up her last rations, choking on vomit burning her throat. Of all the ways to go, this wouldn’t be the one she would’ve preferred. Pointless and without honor.

Motivated to still live, she dragged herself away from inferno. Her heavy armor was unhelpful towards this end, weighing her legs down as she found it difficult to stand. She moved herself as far away from the flames as the tents shriveled up like burned paper. Health potions would not help her condition, she knew that.

On the unburnt grass, her consciousness began to fade. She fought to stay awake, unwilling to chance it in case it would cause her death. There she laid, waiting for something to happen. Death to take her or reinforcements to join with, it didn’t matter. She wanted something to happened and she couldn’t do it.

* * *

Skathi ran up the steps to Dragonsreach to find Farengar talking to a strange figure. Dressed in hooded leathers, she lacked anything identifiable beyond fair skin seen on her ungloved hands. They spoke like old acquaintances; strange given she was probably was not a mage. The outsider wondered their relations. Skathi cleared her throat just to get the wizard’s attention.

“Ah, you’re back!” he said surprised, “I assume you have the Dragsonstone?”

“Got it right here,” the outsider announced, giving him the artifact, “What next?”

"That is where your job ends and mine begins,” he explained, “The work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim."

Before the wizard could even take a step, Irileth ran in. "Farengar!” she called, “Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby.” She turned to Skathi and said, “You should come, too."

A dragon? Not the dragon? The outsider jumped to the fearful thought there was more than the ebony black one that torched Helgen. A thousand terrible thoughts came to mind, as one of the creatures was already a nightmare forged in life; more than that and the amount of people that would not see the dawn rose countless times.

"A dragon! How exciting!” he beamed, “Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you” the Dunmer barked, “If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it. Let's go."

Skathi and Farengar went with her. If she was to be useful, even against these creatures, even if a thousand dragons that may live in the sky today, she would be needed. Others had reasons to live, but she did not. No family to survive her, little friends to mourn her, no lover to grieve. Few could say that truthfully and she was truly one of them.

Irileth led the outsider and the wizard to a staircase to the side of the throne and followed her up. She came to a room that seemed dedicated to strategy, but the exact name escaped her. There was Jarl Balgruuf, Proventus and one of the guards. The guard seemed a few years seasoned but scared like a boy in in the night when he hears raised voices. Dragons have that effect on people, even the hardiest folk.

"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?" Jarl Balgruuf asked him.

"Yes, my lord," he humbly confirmed.

"Tell him what you told me,” Irileth coaxed, “About the dragon."

"Uh, that's right,” he said like he had been shaken from a nightmare, “We saw it coming from the south. It was fast. Faster than anything I've ever seen."

"What did it do?” Balgruuf desperately inquired, “Is it attacking the watchtower?"

"No, my lord,” he replied “It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life.” He zoned out for a moment in thought before coming back. “I thought it would come after me for sure."

"Good work, son,” the jarl said in congratulation and solace, “We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it.” When the guard left, he turned to the Dunmer, “Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," she stated.

"Good. Don't fail me," he ordered like he expected to frighten off death.

The jarl turned to the outsider. “You’ve already done a great service for my city,” he said, “but I must ask your help again.”

“Your guards have families,” she stated, “I don’t. I’m ready to die.”

The jarl looked frighten and concerned but nodded grimly. Perhaps he had heard these sentiments before, whether they were true or not. He seemed a man who had fought with people who thought they had nothing to lose but life and that is just what happened. The number of parents, children, lovers and friends he must have consoled in his time must have been too much.

"I should come along,” Farengar interjected, “I would very much like to see this dragon."

"No. I can't afford to risk both of you,” the jarl barked, “I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons."

"As you command," the wizard accepted with rolled eyes.

"One last thing, Irileth,” Balgruuf said to the Dunmer, “This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

"Don't worry, my lord. I'm the very soul of caution," she replied, giving a small bow before leaving.

Skathi soon followed. She ran down the stairs of Dragonsreach before reaching the doorway, where she practically burst through wood. She stumbled for a moment before catching herself and keeping at it. Her long strides led to jumps as she leaped from landing to landing until she found herself in the garden before the marketplace.

The outsider’s run was interrupted by hand on her arm and she very nearly fell on her back. She turned around to find a Khajiit, cloaked and hunched under the elder tree. Skathi had met his kind before, but none with the strange gaze this one had. One look into his eyes, it was looking into mirror with every plane of oblivion reflected. That was frightening enough, but his aura of confidence was almost like he welcomed even Molag Bal’s challenge to his life.

“Here,” he ordered, giving over a black quiver of arrows, “You’ll need this.”

The quiver was embroidered with this strange gray metal with even stranger letters long it. The arrows themselves were pitch black from notch to spine. She checked and the heads were two pronged like a crab’s claw. She did not recognize this design, nor what it could be made of.

“Well?” the Khajiit asked, “Get going!”

Skathi resumed her run to the watch tower. She hardly noticed Irileth’s guards and passed them by. She ran down the ramparts and gateways to the farms. The fading afternoon light told her there was little time left to reach the guards, even if that was not its purpose. At this, she ran even faster. She could almost feel the wind give her steps speed.

She looked out onto the fields in Whiterun’s shadow and saw the flaming Imperial camp. Soldiers cried in pain as the fire burned their skin and friends. The smell of torched human flesh was horrific, almost making Skathi gag. Knowing Rena was amongst them, she hardened, knowing there would be no one to mourn her death. At least their hearts would remain unbroken.

She arrived at a rock not far from the tower. It was good cover. She waited for Irileth and the guards. By the time they arrived, it was nearly sunset.

"No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here,” Irileth remarked the sight of the tower wreathed in flames, “I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere.” She ordered, “Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

The outsider, the Dunmer and the guards all drew their weapons and search the area. The flame danced on the cold grass, but would soon fade, as was Skyrim’s promise. No corpses lay on the premises, perhaps meaning the dragon had eaten. Suddenly, a still living guard burst from the tower at the sight of them.

"No! Get back! It's still here somewhere!” he screamed, “Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

Irileth ran up to the man. "Guardsman! What happened here?” she inquired, “Where's this dragon? Quickly now!"

"I don't know!” he said before looking up and his eyes doubled in size, “Kynareth save us, here he comes again!"

Above them all, a silvery gold dragon flew from the mountains flew with clear intent to burn the tower to the ground. So, it was true: there were more dragons than just the black one. Skathi could not believe Skyrim would survive this crisis. Their kind was in myth and legend, and while heroes did slay them, what heroes were there left to fight them all?

"Here he comes!” Irileth bellowed, “Find cover and make every arrow count!"

Skathi ran into tower and ran up the stairs. She made it to the top and nocked a black arrow into her bow, pulling it back. She aimed to at the dragon in motion and loosed it. Missed. Moving targets were always difficult to hit, but one with the gift of flight was near impossible.

It began to hover in the air and unleash fire upon Irileth and the guards. Skathi saw this as an opportunity and loosed another arrow into the dragon’s belly. It connected, but the beast hardly seemed affected. Another arrow, but it still did not fall. Eventually it broke off and threw its fire at the tower.

Skathi ran to dodge the beast’s destruction. What happened next was beyond belief. The fire reached her faster than she reached the stairs. She hardly had time to processed this when it engulfed her. Blinding pain coursed across her body. When she opened her eyes, she was still alive, unburnt and still in the land of the living. What blessing or witchcraft was this?

Beside her, she found her bow ash. She checked her armor, which did not suffer the same fate, but was still damaged. She was glad that she was still decent but wondered why this protect was upon her.

Out from the tower, she saw a small group of Imperial soldiers entered the battle. Still living, still ready for battle. And at the center was none other than Rena. Skathi may have thought no one would mourn when she died, but she knew who she would mourn of she met Arkay’s grasp.

The outsider searched the tower for another bow. She found one and nocked another black arrow. When the dragon began hover again, she loosed it into its throat. The beast writhed in pain and fell to the ground. It still lived and soon threw fire again.

Protective of whom she considered her only friend, Skathi ran down the tower to meet the dragon on the ground. She ran the faster she had gone, only slowing down to grab a discarded sword. As the beast prepared to unleash a burst of flames onto the Imperials, Skathi jumped onto the back of its head, using a horn for leverage.

On the side of its throat, she found were the black arrow broke its skin. She brought her sword down onto the open wound, making it grow. She struck it again and again until the beast spasmed. The life was leaving its body. As she leaped down from it, it said something no one would forget from this area, even onto the ending of the world.

**“Dovahkiin? NO!” ******

****

And so, it fell dead on the ground. From its lifeless form, strange energies irrupted from its form, like strings made from the nightly lights. They flew from the air with no direction or purpose until they passed Skathi. They went straight into her form and filled her with a feeling she found alien, but beautiful.

****

She could feel something older than the foundation of the earth. Powers and knowledge long dead reached into her mind and showed her things no mortal had known for untold millennia. There was a sense of peace in her she had truly never felt. She felt like Kynareth had given her a kiss, if that makes any sense.

****

What had she done? 

****


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late.

Rena could hardly believe her eyes. Before her, Skathi had slain a dragon. Its skin had burned off and the flames had turned into the Nord but didn’t burn her. She was even unaffected by the dragon’s breathing fire. Her armor had been rent and parts of her hair were singed, but her skin bore no scar. How could anyone exist like this?

But then again, she could very well be in a haze from the flames. The heat and closing air could cause some delusions, right? Especially for her, who had such sensitivity to these things. Still, she should check if this was real or not.

Rena approached the scene and Skathi awkwardly put her sword away and descended the dragon skeleton. Despite being a dragon slayer, she still had the lack of grace she’d seen in Bleak Falls Barrow. She still acted like the awkward tall child, despite maybe being a year younger than Rena. She only hoped whatever horrors awaited her would be kind.

“So,” the Imperial spoke up, “this was a thing.”

Skathi seemed not to notice her at first and almost jumped. “I guess,” she shakily replied.

Rena was about to ask if she was okay, but a Nordic voice came behind her. "I can't believe it!” one of the guards proclaimed, “You're... Dragonborn...”

Skathi’s lip pursed and her eyes went wide with stress. “Dragonborn?” Skathi asked, “What do you mean?”

“In the very oldest tales, back when there still were dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power,” he explained, “That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?”

The outsider sighed and said, “I think you may be right.”

“There's only one way to find out,” he said, “Try to Shout. According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do.”

“Dragonborn?” another guard asked, “What are you talking about?”

“That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself.”

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

"There weren't any dragons then, idiot. They're just coming back now for the first time in forever. But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power. You must be one!”

"What do you say Irileth?” a guard asked, “You're being awfully quiet.”

"Come on, Irileth, tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?”

Irileth, much like Rena, wasn’t a Nord. She was a Dunmer, unlikely to know of any Dragonborn legends. Even if it was true and Skathi was one of them, why treat her with such reverence? She was a child with the body of a grown woman, not some great warrior. If anything, she was a worn doll on the verge of tearing. She had the look of it.

She hmphed “Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about,” she remarked, “Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn. Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me.”

“You wouldn't understand, Housecarl,” a guard said, “You ain't a Nord.”

The Dunmer scowled much like Rena must have. “I've been all across Tamriel,” she barked defensive, “I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends.”

“If you really are Dragonborn, like the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout,” a guard asked Skathi, “Can you? Have you tried?”

Rena remembered the rumors of Ulfric Stormcloak, of how he shouted King Torygg apart. She doubted such a thing could be done, but seeing Captain Ansgar’s display, perhaps it was possible. It was then that she remembered what happened to Captain Ansgar.

The Imperial bolted across the field. She passed burning grass and charcoal soldiers; the devastation of the dragon laid bare before her. The cries of frightened and dying horses pierced air, clouded by smoke. Medics tried to mitigate the damage, but arrived too late to save many poor souls, Arkay finding them too soon. This was only one dragon. And there were more. Rena prayed the Divines would grant them mercy.

Rena found Ansgar’s mauled body by two Legionnaires that were picking him up. Quickly, it became clear he was still alive and conscious. Despite being worn by the Rift’s dangers and being chewed and thrown a dragon, he looked none the worse for wear. It looked like nothing would kill him.

Well, maybe his wounds if familiar company had their way. Commander Caius was back. He had been clearly frightened by the ordeal, but the only effect on his demeanor towards the Legionnaires was just being far more awkward.  
“I’m sorry, captain,” he stated, “but you still need to clear out.”

Ansgar looked like he was ready to kill them, but his Legionnaires held him back. They knew he would only hurt himself like this. Even if his wounds didn’t betray him in one step forward, he couldn’t do anything. Caius’s bloody corpse would do nothing but inform the Jarl to send a company down to wipe them out, maybe even join the Ulfric’s cause.

And then something bizarre happened. Led by an officer in bear-skin armor, Stormcloak soldiers rode up to this meeting, swords sheathed and a cart behind them. The fact that they made it this far in the hold was improbable, but their passive approach was plain alien to the battle-hardened Legion soldiers. They and the Whiterun guard drew blades, but the officers did not match them.

“Stay your blade, warriors,” the officer cautioned, “We aren’t here for battle.”

Caius was about to speak, but Ansgar beat him to the punch. “What in Oblivion are you doing here?” he barked.

“We were here to watch over your return to Imperial territory,” the officer explained, getting off her horse, “but you have earned our aid.”

Rena almost sighed a breath of relief, but Ansgar wasn’t so happy. “We’ll let ourselves be vulnerable to your lot,” he growled, “We’ll be going to safe territory on our own.”

One of the soldiers propping Ansgar up, an Orc, chimed in, “Captain, we’re losing horses and we’re not equipped to head out right now; we need their help, or we’ll die.”

“We will not harm you,” the officer stated, “You’ve fought a dragon. You have earned our aid and a place in Sovngarde at least.”

Ansgar was ready to bark again, but Rena stopped him. “Captain,” she interrupted, “we’ll die without their aid.”

The captain looked to his men, even to the yet silent soldier holding him up. The Bosmer gave him a look of dead honesty, almost like a mother disciplining a child. He sighed; his stubborn pride defeated this time.

The Stormcloaks brought a cart over and the injured were loaded up, including Ansgar. The soldiers that could still ride rode beside it down the road, the sunsetting to their right. It was certain they wouldn’t make it far, just to Falkreath and they would follow the roads west to Markarth and north to Solitude. This was going through Rena’s mind when something else bought her attention.

**“Dovahkiin!” ******

A shout so powerful, everyone heard it. Whatever it said, it gave Rena a foreboding sense. It sounded important, but what did it mean?

* * *

Everyone was talking about one thing in Whiterun: Dovahkiin. No one knew what the word meant, nor did they know why it echo from the highest peak to the lowest valley. All they knew was some ancient forces were at work and they deserved attention, or all might suffer. They were unready for whatever awaited them, as most would admit, but they stand against any foe before them.

Skathi herself did not know what it meant either. She slew a dragon that could not burn her and was declared the Dragonborn for it. Then someone the mountain peaks declared “Dovahkiin” to the world, something she did not know the meaning of it, but it felt like she could almost understand it. Maybe it meant “Dragonborn,” but what then? What would she do from there? Kill whatever other dragons still roam? It seemed too big a task for her.

She walked the same way up to Dragonsreach she did when she first came to Whiterun. It was quieter in the early evening than the afternoon. Probably because that damn preacher was absent from corner. She came to the citadel, all the guards looking at her strangely, and Proventus came to her as she entered the hall.

"Good. You're finally here,” he remarked, “The Jarl's been waiting for you."

Skathi followed him to the throne and Balgruuf was speaking with this man in scaled armor, battle-harden from the looks of him. They did not seem to mind her damaged cuirass, though perhaps it was because only the sleeves were gone, her torso piece still intact. As she approached, she began to catch what they were saying. It was the obvious for this situation.

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean?” Balgruuf asked the man beside him, “The Greybeards."

The warrior turned to Skathi, having notice her entrance. "We were just talking about you,” he stated, “My brother needs a word with you."

The Jarl turned to the outsider. "So, what happened at the watchtower?” he inquired, “Was the dragon there?"

“The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon,” she reported. That was the most she was certain she could say.

"I knew I could count on Irileth,” he remarked with a good friend’s pride, “But there must be more to it than that."

“Turns out I may be something called ‘Dragonborn,’" she explained, nervously. It felt like bragging, to claim such things. It was like bringing up your ancestor was a glorious warrior unprompted.

“Dragonborn?” he exclaimed, “What do you know about the Dragonborn?"

“That's just what the men called me,” she muttered.

"Not just the men,” he remarked, “The Greybeards seem to think the same thing."

“The Greybeards?” she asked. Skathi never heard of them before. Were they the ones that cried “Dovahkiin”?

"Masters of the Way of the Voice,” he explained, “They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

“What do these Greybeards want with me?” she asked.

“The Dragonborn is uniquely gifted in the Voice,” he exposited, “the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

“That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar!” the warrior interjected, “This hasn't happened in centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

So, Skathi was to follow in the footstep was Tiber Septim, the Red King, first emperor of Tamriel. It left her feeling uncomfortable. To be put on the same pedestal as a man that became Divine is frightening. While it was unsaid whether anyone would hold her in the same revere or not, it was understood she would still summon respect.

"Hrongar, calm yourself,” Proventus insisted, “What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as she may be, I don't see any signs of her being this, what, ‘Dragonborn’."

"Nord nonsense?!” the warrior named Hrongar exclaimed, “Why you puffed-up ignorant,” he muttered as he took a breath, “These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

"Hrongar,” his brother spoke in, “Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

"I meant no disrespect, of course,” Proventus remarked, “It's just that what do these Greybeards want with her?"

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours,” Balgruuf replied and turned to Skathi, “Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards, it's a tremendous honor.

So, it was decided. Skathi would go to the top of High Hrothgar and do whatever the Greybeards asked of her. She was unsure if she wanted to do that. All she ever wanted was to be happy, and such a pilgrimage sounded unpleasant. The travel, mostly. She crossed a longer distance for sure, but she just disliked travel. A good, quiet place to rest and warm up with good food on her plate sounded perfect, but she believed it out of reach.

“I envy you, you know,” Balgruuf remarked “To climb the Seven-Thousand Steps again.” He became lost in good memories, but soon continued, “I made the pilgrimage once. Did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before.” His face hardened at the thought, “No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Then it was out of her hands. If she refused, they would know, and she would never hear the end of. She could leave them all behind; she did it before, but this made her feel worse. Why did she leave the world behind the first time? She could not remember, but it felt important, dark, wretched, repulsive.

"You've done a great deed for me and my city, Skathi Wolf-Runner,” Balgruuf declared, “By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office.

A servant came and handed a great steel battle-axe none could wield with one hand. It looked as cumbersome as this position felt. First was the news that she was given this incredible power by the divines, second was some sort of court position. She never wanted this. She just wanted to be happy.

“I'll also notify my guards of your new title,” Balgruuf continued, “Wouldn't want them to think your part of the common rabble, now would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

The jarl turned to his steward. "Back to business, Proventus,” he commanded, “We still have a city to defend."

"Yes, my lord,” the steward replied.

Skathi left the court, this heavy burden in hand. She just wanted to be happy, but now was not the time. She hated this. She almost overlooked the armored woman by the doorway.

"The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl,” the woman, presumably Lydia stated, “It's an honor to serve you."

Skathi really did not want this. “I'm a Thane,” she mused, “What does that mean?”

"The Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero,” Lydia explained, “The title of Thane is an honor, a gift for your service. Guards will know to look the other way, if you let them know who you are."

“What does a housecarl do?” Skathi asked.

"As my Thane, I'm sworn to your service,” Lydia replied, “I'll guard you, and all you own, with my life."

The outsider sighed. “Alright, follow me,” she ordered.

Skathi stepped out the citadel to find guards and citizens alike surrounding. When they saw her, they rose their swords and empty fists, chanting, “Dragonborn!” When she descended the stairs down to the garden, more were there, chanting, “Dragonborn!” When she arrived in the market, even more chanted, “Dragonborn!”

“Dragonborn!”

Dragonborn!

Dragonborn.

She did not want this.

* * *

Jeanne and Ravani stayed in Fort Kastav for the night, being too far from Windhelm to travel for the night. They found much discussion of what “Dovahkiin” meant, many believing it referred to the Dragonborn, but Jeanne believed that was impossible; how could there be a Dragonborn when there were no Septims left? No matter; it wasn’t like this Dragonborn would decide the fate of the war.

In the morning, they set out to Windhelm. They arrived well before midday, but the town was still in conversation when they arrived. It was mostly about this “Dovahkiin” and what it meant with the dragons’ return. This wildfire of discussion still allowed a candlelight: a party of Stormcloaks returned from Whiterun having helped Legionnaires. Jeanne decided to follow up on that.

The Breton and Dunmer entered the Palace of Kings and came upon a scene. Another figure with a bear head helm stood before Ulfric and Galmar, this one a woman. Again, Jeanne wondered why bear head helms were so popular.

“I am aware of my orders,” the woman stated, “but my honor demanded I help them to safety.”

“At the expense of an advantage?” Galmar barked. It seemed that was the only way he could talk. Like Wrothgar Bretons.

“No, savage!” the warrior barked back, “They fought a dragon and lost many. I found it the only honorable thing to do.”

Ulfric stayed silent and unreadable this entire time. “You would call me a savage when you would give quarter to our enemy?!” Galmar growled.

“Galmar,” Ulfric spoke firmly, “step away.”

The officer went to the war room like a child being told to go to his room.

“Harling,” Ulfric stated, “You have done what any Nord should do. We wage war, but an act of honorable kindness was the least you could do.”

The warrior, Harling, breathed a sigh of relief before Ulfric spoke again. “But there’s something more pressing: did you see the Dragonborn?”

Again, and again with this Dragonborn; why was this Dragonborn so special? “I believe so,” Harling stated, “A wild woman, it seems. Do we try to recruit her?”

Ulfric shook his head. “With the dragons abound,” he remarked, “it is better that the most powerful force against them be fighting them, not my shield-sister. I only hope her time with the Greybeards is brief or so will this war.”

Harling nodded. “There’s one more thing,” she stated, “There seems to be a Legionnaire that can Shout.”

The Jarl furrowed his brow. “Who are they?” he inquired.

“A captain,” she explained, “he seemed both a Nord and an Imperial.”

Ulfric went into a moment of silence. He clenched his eyes in deep consideration. “I can only hope he isn’t a threat,” he muttered, “Go. Rest.”

Harling left the palace, visibly confused by Jeanne’s presence, but not so much when she saw Ravani. Jeanne just brushed it off and the bizarre discussion of how a shouting Legionnaire was somehow a threat to the Stormcloaks. She went to Galmar in the war room and he had a surprised expression by her existence.

“You're alive,” he remarked on the obvious, “I owe Ulfric a drink. I must admit, I didn't think we'd be seeing you again. I misjudged you. You're Stormcloak material. It's time we made this official. You ready to take the Oath?”

Jeanne stood there, confused. “Oath?” she inquired. There seemed to be a lot more to this than just joining.

“Before you're one of us,” Galmar explained, “you must swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, future High King of Skyrim. You must also pledge unswerving loyalty to your fellow Stormcloaks, to Skyrim, and to her people.”

Jeanne should’ve known this. An oath was serious, witnessed by gods and unbreaking by mortals if they valued their brethren in this world and the next. It was said an oath breaker was fair game for the Daedric princes, but perhaps spread by cursing noblemen who got gipped. If she chose to leave, she would never be called honorably again.

But perhaps that was a small price to pay. She now had the choice on whether to leave or join this rebellion. If she stayed, she would be forever an enemy of the Empire and never return home. If she left now, she could go back to her own home and never worry for her life again. She could live without this war, but she couldn’t live with herself if she left this war to fail and all their lives to be meaningless in their own eyes.

The answer was obvious.

“I'm ready to take the Oath.”

She gave a silent apology to the family she would never see again.

"That's the spirit,” Galmar remarked, “By swearing this oath, you become one of us. A heroine of the people. A true daughter of Skyrim. A Stormcloak. Repeat after me.

‘I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak,’”

“I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak,"

“’Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.’”

“Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.”

“’As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond,’”

“As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond,”

“even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.’”

“even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.”

“’All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!’”

“All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!” Jeanne vowed.

It was done. She was a Stormcloak of Skyrim, no Breton of High Rock.

“Now you're one of us,” Galmar stated, “Which means you get to tag along on a little trip with me. Oh, and here.” From a chest, he took an unused Stormcloak uniform. “You're a Stormcloak now, you ought to look the part.”

Jeanne looked at the fresh uniform. She would need this. It was such a strange and terrifying idea that she would have need of it. Within the week, she would see more blood and death than in her entire life before. She knew this. It wouldn’t make it easier.

* * *

Skathi found comfort in the woods. Early in the morning, she escaped the crowds of Whiterun to forests southward. They were many but were quiet and they could live on without her. Sometimes, that was all you needed.

Whiterun was far better when no one cared who she was. She was a traveler to them, strange, but welcome for work. Yesterday, she helped around town and no one bothered learning her name. Today, she reached this place after a dozen people called her ‘Dragonborn’. Whenever someone began looking to her to solve their problems, it meant they knew she was there.

And so, she retreated to the woods. Animals barely registered her presence underneath a tree, those that did being easy warded off by the rank smell of piss telling them whose territory this was. The ways to trick wolves are few, but truly effective. Stinky, though.

She could still see Whiterun. It seemed so much more peaceful from this far. It lacked the crowds and cries she knew were there. She could see the farms, so small from this incline. They were so distant. And she saw Lydia approach with what she left behind.

“I know you’re not used to civilization, so I’ll ignored how inappropriately you acted back there,” the housecarl stated, “But as your servant, I recommend you adopt some social graces.”

While uncharacteristic, Skathi replied with, “Fuck you, Lydia.” She did not want to take this.

Lydia held something back and explained, “Not what I meant, but you could at least not pretend to be crippled when you feel contempt for the crowd.”

Skathi did no such thing. Last night, as the crowd continued, her heart and mind raced faster than her body and she lost her sense of balance. She held her hands to her ears to keep their chanting out and lack the ability to walk as she tried. Lydia had to drag her to the Bannered Mare, where she was thrown into her payed room to cool off.

She held no ill will towards the crowd but had no care for what they were saying either. They were too loud, and they seemed to rely on her. She could not comprehend why anyone would rely on her a week ago, but everyone seemed to want something from her now. It sat like rockjoint to her. She believed something was wrong when they were relying on her for what they needed.

“Listen,” Lydia sighed, “Eorland Gray-Mane made these for you.”

She took out a belt with a sword and dagger sheathed at its side. They seemed like steel but looked to have a finer luster. The housecarl also took out a bow of dark wood and intricate steel designs. It reminded her of the undeads’ weapons from Bleak Falls Barrow, but newer and less decrepit. Yet another token from those who thought her better than she was.

“Those blades are Skyforge Steel,” Lydia stated, “Only the Companions of Jorrvaskr ever wield them. Think about that.”

“I don’t need to,” Skathi quietly replied as she fashioned the belt around her waist.

As the outsider stepped onto the road, the housecarl asked, “Do you have a horse?”

“No,” her thane answered, “I’m scared of them and wouldn’t have the coin anyway.”

“Well, the townsfolk might have something to say about that,” Lydia remarked as she took out a large coin purse, “They put this together last night to reward you for slaying the dragon.”

Skathi took a long look at that purse. “Why are they like this?” she wondered, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Oh, pity yourself for being a hero later,” Lydia snapped, “Let’s buy some horses.”

“You can,” Skathi stated as she left to the fields. Her housecarl was still on her way to the stables.

Of the things Skathi believed, one of them was that she had no right to buy a horse. Such beautiful and powerful creatures did not deserve her as a burden, and they knew it. Any moment, they would throw her off and kill her. She could not buy one that did not agree to her, so that is why she was out here.

She went into the fields of Whiterun to find a horse.

The fields were stained with blood and scorch, but wild animals still roamed. Rabbits and birds, but no horses yet. She sat in the fields with whatever food Lydia would take to her, waiting for her steed to appear. It was calming. The wind was as cold as ever, but the sun was warm on her body. It was not the Jerall Mountains in summer, but still lovely.

In waiting, she was almost meditative. Few thoughts ran through her mind, all of which were about the field. It was so peaceful, not like the madness and fear of the deep woods. She felt good.

For a moment, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, a black and white mare appeared before her. There was no saddle on her back, nor any sign it had ever been domesticated. A wild creature that seemed to just approach her unprompted.

On the inside, Skathi was full of fear like she had just been approached by Molag Bal. On the outside however, she appeared as calm as Kynareth. She raised herself up to lay a hand on this mare’s long mane. It was soft like Cyrodiilic silk. She listened to her breath and heartbeat, unbroken or risen with the outsider’s presence. They were calm.

“Do you wish to follow me?” Skathi asked.

She blew her nose at the outsider. Skathi had no knowledge of what that meant, but it seemed positive. As such, she led the mare to the stables to outfitted. Lydia was already there, waiting for her with her own horse. Skathi was sure it was a mare as well.

“Where did you find that?” the housecarl asked.

“In the field,” her thane answered, “I was out in the field and she just approached me.”

The stable master approached and took a good look over Skathi’s mare. “She’d be a good stead; she seems to already be broken in,” he remarked, “Just a few things and she’ll be perfect.”

He tried to lead the mare to the stable, but she began to squeal and rear. In an instant, she went from tranquil to nearly crazed. Skathi could not abide by this and soothed the horse down. It calmed down.

“Horse don’t act like that most of the time,” the stable master remarked, “You must be special.”

“To a girl afraid of horses?” Lydia questioned.

“The dragons have returned,” he replied, “I’ve just accepted things are going to make less sense as my life goes on.”

They worked out that Skathi would be necessary to keep the mare calm as they prepared her to be ridden. As they nailed on her horseshoes, Skathi stroked her mane like a mother. While they calmed her, the outsider’s fears fell away and at least this horse seemed like it would tolerate her.

“What’s your name?” she whispered.

No answer was heard, but one came to mind.

“Kili,” Skathi proclaimed. A tear left her eye.

Once Kili was saddled up, Skathi mounted her and she rode down the cobblestone with Lydia in tow with her own horse, Queen Alfsigr. And so, the ride to High Hrothgar began.

* * *

It had taken the better part of a day to reach Solitude, capital city of Skyrim. It was made longer by trying to avoid going through Whiterun hold as much as possible, but it was inevitable; many roads passed through Whiterun. The Stormcloaks kept their word and followed them to the edge of Falkreath hold, where they were left in the Jarl’s care for the night, but off to the capital the next day.

Solitude was General Tullius and the Legion’s headquarters in Skyrim. It’s place as capital made it ideal for any military governor, but it also spoke to how it was much unlike anywhere else in the province. It had by far the warmest climate, buildings were built with stone and a love for the finer things was prevalent. It was more like an Imperial city than Nordic.

Something quite Imperial was something that caught their attention as they entered the city. To the right was an execution of a criminal, if he could be considered as such. It was of Roggvir, a guard whose duty as a gatekeeper was only superseded by his Stormcloak sympathies. He let Jarl Ulfric escape Solitude when he killed High King Torygg. For this, he was branded a traitor and sentenced to execution.

But Rena knew better. Typically, the likes of him would only be sent to the dungeon until the served their time, at which point they could never hold the same position as before. However, they needed an example, and Ulfric was long gone. This wasn’t for his crimes; this was to show the law was still the law. Almost a waste of life.

The soldiers went to Castle Dour at the peak of the mountain perched city. It was the most defensible position in the city, with its own walls and gates, and the headquarters for the city guard and General Tullius. The Legion and the guard had a good working relationship, enough to trade some equipment and use the barracks until open war began.

Rena and Ansgar, worn from travel, just wanted to rest, but there were regulations to uphold. They entered General Tullius’s war room to report. The governor saw them and quickly took in their dirty and wounded visages with a look of guarded sympathy for them. He was their superior officer; they were his subordinates; there was chain of command they had to uphold.

“You two look like shit,” Tullius stated.

Rena nodded. “We were unable to capture Ulfric,” she reported.

“Not surprising,” the general remarked, “he was never going to be easy to capture. The first time required a delicate operation to force him into an ambush. A chase without a plan was always going to fail against guerrilla warfare.”  
Ansgar grimaced. His superior officer continued, “What happened to your men?”

“Stormcloaks, wild animals and a dragon,” Ansgar reported, “we’re lucky to be alive.”

Tullius grimly nodded. “We’ve heard about the second dragon,” he stated, “we’re putting intelligence on it.” He continued, “You’re dismissed.”

The soldiers were relieved and left. They went to the mess hall and had a full dinner of salmon and carrots. It was good to have solid food again. Rena left her armor and weapons at the foot of her bunk and went straight to the bathhouse. The barracks was relaxed around the bathhouse, as everybody needed to clean, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. Ansgar looked embarrassed to be there though, as though he’d be more comfortable bathing in his armor around his comrades.

Once she was clean, Rena went to maintain her equipment. Every night before bed, she would clean her sword and every time in a barracks, she would clean and repair her armor. It was only what she had been taught to do as a soldier. Ansgar soon joined her in his own management of his gear.

Rena got a chip on her shoulder thanks to Ansgar. The way he treated the Stormcloaks’ offer was almost as though they asked if they could drag him through the streets naked and have cow pats thrown in his face. While he should’ve kept his guard up, he just seemed recklessly vengeful, a terrible trait for a commander to have.

“Explain yourself,” Rena asked.

Ansgar looked up from his work. “How so?”

“I don’t expect Legionnaires to treat Stormcloaks like kin,” Rena remarked, “but I don’t expect a commander to be that reckless with the lives of his men.”

Ansgar raised his eyebrow. “How do you think that was reckless?” he inquired.

“Are you kidding me?” Rena replied, somewhat shocked, “Had you refused their aid, you could’ve killed whatever was left of our company. We were injured, dying, low on supplies. Had the Stormcloaks given not escorted us to the border, brigands could’ve come across us and killed us all. Why were you so eager to decline?” Her voice was beginning to drip with venom, “Pride? Hatred? Tell me.”

The northern captain looked up from his work. “To save face,” he explained.

Rena was confused, but he continued. “My men wouldn’t accept their commander accepting Stormcloak aid. We train to fight for the Empire and its interests. They see me as a strong leader who give no quarter and they seem to respond well to that. If they saw me immediately accept their enemies’ aid, they would think less of me. Being talked into it makes a better narrative.”

Interesting. So Ansgar was eager to keep up an image of who he was, and he would maintain it under pressure. Rena knew people like this. A cousin of hers equally eager to keep his true opinions and feeling to himself in favor of appealing to the local lord. In private, he was a glorious, but his public identity was duller than a butter knife. Eventually, her old cousin was completely gone from all the effort to maintain his public identity. She missed him.

However, Rena wouldn’t lead with that. “So, you thought making me look bad in front of you men was better?” she inquired.

Ansgar sighed, putting his armor aside. “It’s not like we’ll be working together for long,” he remarked, “In two days’ time, we’ll be on opposite sides of Imperial territory and never have to see each other again.”

The Imperial smirked in disbelief. “We’re two officers with no assignments in a war where casualties could mount in the hundreds,” she explained, “It’s far more likely we’ll be in the same battalion, maybe the same company.”

Ansgar scrunched in shock and embarrassment. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get our assignments,” he said as he set his equipment aside and rolled over into bed.

Rena would let him off. Hopefully, he wouldn’t go down her cousin’s path. She hadn’t seen much of him outside of his persona, but he seemed decent enough. When last she checked, her cousin wasn’t in a good place.

* * *

In ancient days, a crown of dragon bone was forged called the Jagged Crown. For centuries, it was a sign of the monarch’s right to rule. However, it was lost to the ages in the First Era. Fortunately, it was found again in the crypt of Korvanjund. If Ulfric were to acquire the crown, it would be taken as a sign of his right to rule all of Skyrim.

Enter Jeanne. She and a party of Stormcloaks led by Galmar was assigned to ride to Korvanjund. Their objective was to keep the Jagged Crown out of the Legion’s hands and return it to Ulfric. It was to be her first mission, so a failure would be disappointing to her peers. She didn’t disappoint them but prove herself. If she died here, it would be a moronic fate for her.

Part of the detachment was Eoni, Ravani and Mikaela. Mikaela turned out to be a detriment to the ride, stopping to help a jester on the road. He was not out of place in the courts of High Rock, but the Skyrim natives noted how strange his presence. Not wanting to stop for anyone, Galmar led the rest to Korvanjund and left Mikaela to sort this out.

When they came upon the crypt, shadowed by a ridge, the Legion was already there. A handful of soldiers patrolled the entrance, stepping around the corpses of bandits they were assured were Korvunjund’s soul occupants. Galmar cursed this but knew what had to be done. If Ulfric was to claim his crown, they would need to cut through the Legionnaires.

The officer raised his hand and Ravani nocked an arrow. She looked straight at a lone soldier and loosed an arrow into her throat. She fell over, gasping for air as she died in six seconds. Jeanne was unnerved by this quiet death, one that didn’t scream to the soldier’s comrades that she was dying. Would that be her some day? Would she die because no one cared? If so, would they even remember her?

Jeanne shirked these fears and prepared herself for another arrow sent into a soldier’s eye. That caught the other Legionnaires’ attention. They drew swords and checked their fallen comrade’s eyes. One soldier even found the first to fall. They knew what was going on and raised shields to the ridge.

Galmar raised his war hammer and ran off the ridge and onto a Legion shield. Jeanne and the rest of the Stormcloaks followed their officer and landed on Legionnaires, crushing them beneath a warrior’s weight. These tactics were useful in disorienting their foes, letting the Stormcloaks gain an advantage and carve a swath into the crypt. Jeanne suddenly felt a lot less conscious about her diet.

Into Korvanjund, the Stormcloaks fought shield to shield. Jeanne cut down many a Legionnaire, but not without remorse. She wondered who these men and women were that she was carving through like dinner. Who were their families? Did they still have their parents? Did they have siblings to survive them? Had they found the love of their lives? Were their children to suffer in poverty because of her actions? What right did she to kill them? Had her oath been in vain?

Cutting through Legion’s defenses, not many notice their surroundings, but Jeanne found something bizarre in the chaos. On the stone floor was a corpse, ancient, but not covered in cobwebs and dust. It was as though he had sprung to life just to die again. It wouldn’t be as strange if a Legionnaire’s body wasn’t fallen right next to it with a wound that, at a glance, looked like it came from the corpse’s weapon.

Eventually, they came upon a scene that caught everyone’s attention. In what Galmar called the Hall of Stories, a hall of many myths and gods etched in stone, there were two dead Legionnaires at the end. Their torch was still burning. Beside them was a dragon claw statuette made of ebony glass. The dead end looked to be a door if the design on it was a lock that would only open with the claw. Jeanne worked its mechanism and the door was open.

Down the passageway, they found themselves in an open room with no way out. There were doors, but they were either blocked or the mechanism to open them was unseen. They knew there was a way through, just not what it was.

“Come on, boys,” Galmar ordered, “Let’s spread out and see what we’ve got.”

Jeanne and the others poked around the chamber. It wasn’t long before they found a lever to one of the doors. Galmar was about to say something when the coffins’ lids fell open. Any thought of age was quickly dissuaded when the corpses inside walked out of their resting places with weapons drawn. What horror beheld them?

“Steady now!” Galmar assured, “They may be uglier than Imperials, but they'll go down just the same.”

But they didn’t. Whenever a blade and blunt was beaten against their skin, it wouldn’t kill them. These were the dead, not Legionnaires. Jeanne was cornered by one such creature, her sword useless and her shield rent when she threw fire on it form and it quickly burned to death. That was an advantage they could use.

“Kill them with fire!” she yelled.

The Stormcloaks followed this advice and smashed torches and strangely still lit crypt candle into the dead warriors. Eoni raised her hand and cast fire magic against them. Jeanne wasn’t aware that there was another mage in their presence. The dead were burned like swigs in the desert.

Once they were through with that room, they came upon a different chamber. At the epicenter was a throne with a corpse sat upon it. On its head was the Jagged Crown. One of the Stormcloaks noticed this and went over to take the crown from the corpse. Its hand took his wrist.

“Ralof!” Galmar gasped, “Get away from there, fool!”

Ravani loosed an arrow into the corpse’s wrist and its hand broke from it body. Ralof ran off and Jeanne and Eoni unleashed fire at the corpse. It was burning, but not as fast as they should. It didn’t take its weapon from sheath and shouted a foreign tongue that was so powerful that it threw the two mages to the floor. This wouldn’t be an easy battle.

Galmar engaged the corpse with his war hammer and it didn’t break its will. It would shout again, but he seemed more used to the strange magic. He smashed and smashed the corpse, but it hardly wavered either. Ravani, though, was less impressed and ran around to chop the corpse’s head off. She managed to succeed, and it fell, dead, with the still crowned head in the Dunmer’s hand, held by the spike.

The officer took a moment and bear hugged his soldier. “Get to Windhelm with the crown as quick as you can,” he happily ordered, “Tell Ulfric he owes me a drink. We'll stick around here for a while and see if we can find anything else useful.”

“Got it,” Ravani replied.

Jeanne was pleased. Her first mission was a success. She would dine well tonight. Or not.


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, Rena awoke with no intention of getting out of bed. Even if this wasn’t a good bed, it was far better to her strained muscles than standing up. She’d read The Lusty Argonian Maid if it wasn’t banned from the barracks. She was worn from travel and war. She just wanted to catch up from all the excitement.

However, you don’t get to rest in the Legion. She didn’t see who, but someone in armor pulled on her sheet and flipped her onto the stone floor. No sleeping in in the Legion. She sighed and donned her armor for duty. Ansgar was at the door, waiting for his comrade, probably the one that woke her up.

“Come on,” he ordered, “Tullius wants us.”

The two officers climbed the stairs to the general’s war room, passing some disheveled vagrant on the way. When they arrived, there were two officers with Tullius. One was Legate Rikke, his chief lieutenant. The other was an unfamiliar Imperial with the blade of a Tribune. On the table was some sort of spiked helm. Tullius seemed to favor the helm.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, looking at his young officers.

Rena looked over it. “Some sort of special Nord helm?” she inquired.

“This is the Jagged Crown,” he grinned, “a Nord artifact. If Ulfric were to get this, he would use it as a sign he had the right to rule. But it’s ours now.”

Ansgar took one look at it and said, “If you’re not going to use it, I’m gonna take it.”

Tullius picked it up. “It’s going to under lock and key for now until Jarl Elisif’s crowning,” he explained.

Jarl Elisif was High King Torygg’s widow. She was young, inexperienced in statecraft, leaving everything to her steward. The Empire supported her claim to the throne, seeing as there was no heir apparent and Ulfric’s claim was considered illegitimate. And yet, Tullius was sent here as military governor. Rena got the impression there was some puppetry going on.

The Imperial officer approached her and Ansgar. “I’m Tribune Solana Barsotti,” she stated, “I’m your new commanding officer.”

“Hm,” Ansgar remarked, “I’m not sure this one would be good for a cavalry company.” Referring, of course, to Rena.

Barsotti looked a little confused. “I’m not a cavalry commander,” she explained, “You’re being transferred to an infantry battalion under Legate Quentin Cipius. Don’t worry, you’re getting reinforcements.” She turned to Rena. “You are getting a promotion.”

The tribune picked up a captain’s sword from the table and handed to Rena. She knew this was coming, Tullius said as much, but it just wasn’t something she was used to. One-hundred people now counted on her as a leader, to know what’s best for them and lead them to victory. If she failed them, for any reason, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself.

“General Tullius will explain the rest,” Barsotti explained.

Ansgar and Rena were led out into the lobby and officer started to join. Rena counted and there were as many officers there as there were in a regiment. About sixty or so. General Tullius, having put away the Jagged Crown, stood up on a bench to get the officers’ attention.

“Soldiers!” he exclaimed, “Open war is upon us. We’ve received word that Ulfric Stormcloak is preparing to invade Whiterun if Jarl Balgruuf doesn’t side with him. If Whiterun hold is taken, Ulfric will have the roads. We must stand in his way.”

Whiterun Hold was incredibly valuable for the war effort. The roads would cut out a lot of the travel time to maintain the rest of the holds. Tundra cotton, an essential ingredient in potions of magic resistance, was only found there. And it was the ninth hold of the province giving a distinct advantage to whoever they sided with.

He continued, “Once we have permission from the Jarl, you’ll be deployed to Whiterun to defend the city from the rebel forces. Prepare for the long haul.” He sighed. “I know many of you have mixed feelings about fighting your fellow Nords. Some of you may be fighting friends and family. I have nothing to justify this. We are on different sides of this war, but we didn’t start this. We will end this war. Pray to the Eight Divines your loved ones survive.”

The lobby was dead quiet. It quickly became as grim as a wake. Many of the Nord officer barely talked. The Imperials tried showing them respect, but their local counterparts were unreceptive. They were just reminded that they were fighting their brothers and sisters in this war. They didn’t want this. Rena knew they just wanted to serve the Empire, but it was getting harder. If the Legion was sent to put down her home county’s rebellion, it would have the same effect on her.

Ansgar barely paid attention to this. He was asking Barsotti if he could keep some of his riders, which was allowed. Rena got the impression he’d be unpopular with the Nord soldiers. He was unpopular with her, but that was a mutual understanding.

However, Rena wanted to check something out. Who was the vagrant that gave them the Jagged Crown? It couldn’t have just been a random sellsword or traveler. The Stormcloaks would keep this as close a secret as possible until it was in Ulfric’s hands. Someone knew its importance. Someone knew Ulfric was after it. Someone knew what to do with the Crown.

Rena checked around. The castle blacksmith mentioned someone of her description getting an order for Imperial armor and leaving the castle grounds. She asked a shifty looking squatter if he saw anything and he said no, but a passing beggar said he saw the vagrant heading to the Winking Skeever, the best and only inn in Solitude. The innkeeper, eager not to gain the ire of a Legionnaire, said the vagrant took a room upstairs.

Upstairs, she found the right door and knock. An underdressed Dunmer poked her head out, mumbled something about poor life decisions and put her head back in. Maybe she should’ve come back at a better time.

* * *

Skathi reached the town of Ivarstead last night. She had been traveling since midday and found herself quite worn from that. She stayed at the Vilemyr Inn, as it was the only inn in the town. It was a small town, all things considered, even smaller than Riverwood. It had the same straw and wood buildings as the former, and a mill, but maybe twelve people without the one or two guards around.

As Skathi had her morning stew, she had nostalgic pangs at the small sights of this town. While her recollection of her hometown was lacking, this place felt like she was back there. She had the same feelings in Riverwood, brief as her time there was. Whatever reason she forgot where her home was, and of all the places she had been since then, she would love to find somewhere like this to settle down with someone, even though no one loved her.

She bought some bread for the road and set out for High Hrothgar; Lydia close in tow. Fortunately, the Seven-Thousand Steps were right on their doorstep. This little town laid in the shadow of the great mountain, built supposedly for pilgrims to the peak where the Greybeards’ temple stood. The convenience was remarkable, though it waned in the years to come.

On the way to the Steps, she found a conversation between a Nord and an Elf. One was old, the other was young.

“On your way up the 7,000 Steps again, Klimmek?” the young Elf asked.

“Not today,” the Nord, presumably Klimmek, replied, “I'm just not ready to make the climb to High Hrothgar. The path isn't safe.”

“Aren't the Greybeards expecting some supplies?” the Elf presumed.

“Honestly, I'm not certain,” Klimmek admitted, “I've yet to be allowed into the monastery. Perhaps one day.”

As the Elf went on with his day, Skathi could not help but take interest. He was remorsefully unable to fulfil his task he had clearly done for years, and she was already going to the top anyway, so she might as well offer her aid. It was only the polite thing to do.  
“On your way to High Hrothgar?” Klimmek asked as Skathi approached, “About to make a delivery up there myself."

A lie, but that was excusable. “What types of deliveries do you make to High Hrothgar?” The outsider inquired.

“Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats,” he explained, “you know, things that keep fresh for a long time. The Greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning.”

Skathi felt she was missing an innuendo, but she could see some meaning in that. They lived in a monastery, there for meditation and training, not tavern town the road. A trip to the butcher was out of the question, and hunting was unlikely in such a terrain. She did wonder what he got out of this arrangement though.

“And in return?” the outsider inquired.

“Well, it's kind of an understanding between us,” Klimmek explained I mean, “it just wouldn't feel right to charge them for a bit of preserved food. Trouble is, my legs aren't what they used to be and climbing the Seven-Thousand Steps takes its toll.”  
Looking at his legs, it was clear his legs had seen better days. He hardly kept to one side for long, if at all, and his feet were constantly moving, despite being stood still. It was clear even standing was painful for the old Nord.

“I could do it for you,” Skathi offered.

“Really?” Klimmek smirked, “That would be kind of you.” He picked up a large knapsack and handed over to the outsider. “Here. Take this bag of supplies,” he continued, “At the top of the steps you'll see the offering chest. Just leave the bag inside and you're done.”

Taking the bag in hand, was well weighted. Considering it was meant to feed the monks until the next while longer, it had to be heavy. Anything else and she might worry they were underfed.

“Anything I should watch out for during the climb?” Skathi inquired.

"Well, there's the occasional wolf pack or stray, but that's all I've ever had to deal with,” Klimmek shrugged, “Shouldn't be a problem for the likes of you. Other than that, watch your footing. In these wintry conditions, the stairs can be treacherous.”  
As Skathi and her housecarl began to walk the trail up the mountain, she heard, “Be careful up there,” from the old Nord.

She would need the care. The Seven-Thousand Steps were long and hard, as well as frozen. One wrong move and she would fall right back down this ancient staircase and have a perfectly preserved body for the burial. A humiliating death for the Dragonborn, prophesied hero of Skyrim. Oh well, at least everyone would forget about her.

Skathi found many markers on her way up. On them were etched tablets that told the story of how Kynareth granted mortals the Voice. At one or two, a pilgrim would be there, if only to meditate on the words, not climb the other six-thousand nine-hundred steps. They were pleasant, she supposed, but she would not remember them for long.

Instead, she paid attention to the wolves. There were quite a few on the path, but she was warned about that. She and Lydia dispatched them easily enough, but then the odd bear would make things complicated. No matter, she was used to fighting animals for years.

Less so regarding trolls. They were a good way up when they encountered a frost troll, tall, white furred and three-eyed. Skathi hardly fought them before, usually avoiding them whenever possible. When she had no choice, she still stayed as far away as she could. This would require cunning.

“Fuck him up, Lydia,” she commanded her housecarl.

Lydia sighed and raised her shield for battle. She charged the troll, sword in hand, and attacked the beast, blade in its chest. It took stabbing the same way an adult takes to being poked by a needle and threw her aside. She picked herself up and tried again, but her next attack was just as fruitless.

Truthfully, this was just to see Lydia get thrown around. Skathi was cold with her to the point of being heated, so she appreciated the troll’s brutality. Still, she needed the sword-hand, so dealt with the beast the same way she dealt with trolls before. She crouched behind cover, drew her bow and loosed an arrow straight in its mouth and it fell, dead.

Lydia looked at her thane. “Was this really necessary?” she hissed.

“The arrow? Yes,” Skathi answered, “Your part? No, I just want to see you in pain.”

That little part of their relationship on display over, they continued to ascend until they reached the temple at High Hrothgar. The temple was old, stone as worn and chipped as the mountainside, mortared together with the snow and ice. And just as Klimmek said, an offering chest laid at the entrance.

Skathi put the knapsack of supplies in the chest and walked toward the entrance. As she opened the ancient bronze door, it sounded an echo as though it had not been used or maintained for an age. Entering, the temple itself was still warm, despite the freezing chill of the winds outside. It was good, as she had been walking for hours and was painfully tired.

As the door closed behind her, Skathi was greeted with a voice as old and wise as the tallest trees of this world.

“So, a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

Skathi found it coming from an old man in thick robes and a hood. He was flanked by three other monks of close age and dress. They moved without noise as though wind, not men. These ancient few were surely the Greybeards.

“I’m answering your summons,” Skathi submitted, bowing her head in respect.

“We will see if you truly have the gift,” the lead monk stated, “Tomorrow.”

Maybe she should’ve come back at a better time.

* * *

The past two days were tense. The Jagged Crown had gone missing with Ravani and Divines know were either went. Ulfric, in lieu of the crown, had gone to the war room and spent much of his time there in planning for the next battle. Rumors had it they would be invading Whiterun hold soon enough. This war was going to escalate, fast.

Jeanne understood this and had been preparing for battle. The court wizard, Wuunferth the Unliving, had given her tomes and training in destruction magic, which she practiced in the yard. She was also accepting tips anyone had on her sword arm and reading books around the subject. Her studies were to keep her alive out there, as she should.

She was in the middle of throwing fireballs harmlessly onto a wall when someone entered the yard. Ravani had returned, looking worse for wear, having clearly been on the road. Her skin and clothes had been covered in dirt and dust, and her apparel had been supplemented with clothes that came from who knows where. The Dunmer had not had it easy getting here and was clearly tired.

“Ravani!” Jeanne greeted as she ran to her, “Where have you been? Do have the crown? You look like you need a bath.”

Ravani nodded stiffly. “I do need a bath,” she replied, “No, I don’t have the crown, but I do have something else.”

She said nothing more as she entered the palace, Jeanne following suit. The guards didn’t stop them, clearly recognizing another shield-sister, despite the fact she had lost her colors. What had happened to the Jagged Crown? Ravani’s gloom was understandable, but where had she lost it? And what did she have that was still worth giving to Ulfric?

The war room’s discussion went silent when Ravani entered. Ulfric furrowed his brow, disappointed that she had taken so long. The Dunmer’s worn expression hardened in his presence. This was the man that she had sworn to follow, so what was it that brought this displeasure.

“Do you have the crown?” Ulfric inquired.

“No,” Ravani stated with understated venom, “but I have brought a message from the Jarl of Whiterun.”

“Is that so?” the unimpressed, but interested Jarl remarked, “I've been wondering when he'd come around.”

In a flash of movement, Ravani brought an axe down onto table with enough force to pierce the wood and map on top of it. The Galmar and the guards drew their weapons to defend, but the Dunmer’s hand never left the axe and the axe never left the table. She gave a hardened stare at Ulfric, who looked disappointed and enraged.

“You're quite brave to carry such a message,” he sneered, “It's a pity you've chosen the wrong side. You can return this axe to the man who sent it. And tell him he should prepare to entertain visitors. I expect a great deal of excitement in the city of Whiterun soon.”

Ravani took the axe from the table and left the war room, leaving a hole in the map and table where Windhelm had been. Jeanne was shocked this had happened. She didn’t understand what this meant, nor did she expect the result. She knew Whiterun had been abstinent in this conflict, but how it suddenly changed by this.

Most of all, she didn’t know what changed for Ravani. She didn’t know where Ravani came from, probably the Gray Quarter, but she obviously vowed to fight for Ulfric, the same as Jeanne. She clearly tolerated the Stormcloaks’ attitudes towards Dunmer, but was that no longer true? Jeanne didn’t know why she did it, but she wanted to know.

The Breton ran after Ravani as the guards raised shield and swords. “Let her leave,” Ulfric ordered, “She is no longer welcome in this city as long as I live.”

Ravani turned to face him. “I’ll hold you to your word,” she replied.

Jeanne just stood there as Ravani left the palace. She had a feeling she would never see her again. Even if she did, she may not have a choice but to kill her. The first Stormcloak she could call a shield-sister was now her enemy.  
But she had questions. She turned to Ulfric, who was staring at the ripped map. “What was that?” she asked.

“It is said that men who understand each other often have no need for words,” Ulfric explained, never looking up from the map, “There are but a few simple truths behind one warrior giving another his axe. By me denying Balgruuf’s axe, I have declared us enemies. Faren’s flare was aggressive, but pointless.”

Jeanne nodded, assuming it was a Nord tradition. “Would you have sent your axe to Balgruuf?” she asked, assuming he was Whiterun’s Jarl.

“Only if I had the Jagged Crown,” Ulfric stated, “Having it in my possession is a declaration of my right and intention to rule. It would’ve been obvious. By Balgruuf sending this message, he reveals that he or one of his allies has the crown. And Balgruuf would never make this declaration without Legion support.”

The implications of this were plain. “Do you think the Legion has the crown?” Jeanne speculated.

“Possible,” the Jarl replied in the middle of realizing he couldn’t read a ripped map now, “The response time for all this makes more sense, but we should still make sure it isn’t in Whiterun.”

“Is that why you’re invading?” Jeanne asked.

Ulfric looked up. “No,” he replied, “All of this is just war.”

Jeanne nodded and left. She had been taught no lessons as to the nature of war. Her parents gave her no lessons, as they didn’t want her to go down this path. She had to assume the invasion of Whiterun wasn’t personal, as having it could be advantageous. If it wasn’t, she didn’t know how to feel. Ultimately, she was just another soldier in a war she didn’t fully understand.

Without any knowledge of how to react to this, Jeanne just went back out to the yard and practice her magic again. The weather was cold, the coldest weather she ever felt, but she told herself that her fire would be enough to warm her, but she knew she was lying to herself. She practiced until nightfall.

When she was worn and the sky was dark, she let herself rest in the yard, possibly ready to fall asleep. She noticed some put a blanket on her shoulders, picked her up and brought her to her bed in the barracks. Jeanne didn’t know who, not paying attention enough until they left the room, closing the door behind them.

* * *

Dinner with the Greybeards was silent. Not one word was said, save those Skathi would say out of the courtesy her mother taught her. While she was used to a lack of speech with her food, the fact that there were others, and not one said a word, made her anxious.

The next morning, the outsider found a set of robes laid out with the same design as the Greybeards’. They were elegant and lined with fur inside. It itched and scratched, so Skathi wore her dress underneath it to maintain her focus. She would need it for her training. Once she was dressed, the Greybeards led her to a foyer and were all present.

“Shout at us, Dragonborn,” the speaking monk, called Arngeir as she learned, ordered, “and let us taste your Voice.”

Skathi had to prepare herself. They meant the power she stole from the dragon; not what children make when something wrong happens. She had only used it once before and it felt strange to use it, like she was spitting fire that would burn her alive if it wanted. She calmed herself and gave Shout with the only word she knew would work:

**“Fus!”**

The force was thrown simple pots and vases but was powerful enough to push Arngeir and another monk aside. They were stumbled against the walls, pushing them to the floor. This was unintentional and Skathi was about to apologize, but the speaking monk was quicker to speak.

“Dragonborn, it is you!” he proclaimed, collecting himself, “You are welcomed to High Hrothgar.” He inquired, “Now, tell me why you have come here.”

The was only one answer Skathi could give. “I’m answering your summons, master,” she explained.

“We are honored to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar,” Arngeir stated “We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny”

“What is my destiny?” Skathi asked.

“That is for you to discover,” he replied, “We can show you the Way, but not your destination.”

That left the outsider without comfort. She needed direction, not some ambiguous destiny to strive towards. She needed a reason to be here. Otherwise, she would be content to be queen of woods, if not for the guilt of ignorance. Unless she was presented with an objective, she would just useless.

“I'm ready to learn,” she muttered.

"You have shown that you are Dragonborn,” Arngeir stated, “You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

Skathi felt cross at him. He just said she had to find her destiny, but he implied with this that he knew something of it. Was he afraid she would go off to meet it without training? If this is how they would treat, she would go off and do just that.

“Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout,” the speaking monk stated, “Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power.”

“All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power,” he continued, “As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you "Ro," the second Word in Unrelenting Force. Ro means ‘Balance’ in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus, ‘Force’, to focus your Thu'um more sharply.”

One of the monks stepped forth and breathed "Ro," against the ground. Like fire, words burned into the ground in the language of her first word. She looked upon it and she could understand it. It all came to her naturally, as though she was relearning a skill from when she child all over again. She was quick to learn the new word.

"You learn a new word like a master,” Arngeir remarked, “you truly do have the gift. But learning a Word of Power is only the first step. You must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts.

“As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly,” he continued to explain, “As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of ‘Ro’.”

Einarth opened his arms and ribbons of energies flew out from him. They writhed through the air and found their way into Skathi’s mind. It was much like when she absorbed the dragon’s power, but far less ancient in how it felt. She could almost see into his mind, experiencing his own life before her very eyes, but not. It was strange.

“Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use your Unrelenting Force shout to strike the targets as they appear.”

**"Fiik Lo Sah!"**

One of the monks Shouted and a ghostly form akin to him appeared. Skathi calmed herself and tested her Voice upon it with **“Fus Ro!”** and it disappeared into nothing. They repeated, summoning another apparition and she Shouted it to dust again. One last time, they summoned the form and she sent it back from whence it came.

“Impressive,” Arngeir remarked, “Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri.”

Skathi was almost lost as to who to follow, as she only knew two of their names. As such, she just picked on and let him lead her out the back of the building. The weather was as cold as ever here, though her robes held her against the cold well enough.

“We will now see how you learn a completely new Shout,” Arngeir stated, “Master Borri will teach you ‘Wuld,’ which means ‘Whirlwind’.”

“Wuld,” one of monks spoke. Like before, dragon text appeared on the ground as though it branded into the stone and snow. And like before, Skathi learned it without much effort. She wondered why it took years if it could be this easy.

“You must hear the word within yourself before you can project it into a Thu'um,” the speaking monk stated, “Approach Master Borri and he will gift you his knowledge of ‘Wuld’.”

Like before, the ribbons flew and gave a look into another’s mind, but this was different. Instead of the force and will break rock, Skathi found the understanding of the wind and how to be one with it. She felt she could throw herself into the air and she would fly across it without resistance.

“Now we will see how quickly you can master a new Shout,” Arngeir stated, “Master Wulfgar will demonstrate Whirlwind Sprint. Then it will be your turn. Master Borri.”

**“Bex!”**

From the other side of the courtyard, a gate opened. Without any sign of preparing his body, one of the monks flew to the words, **"Wuld Nah Kest!"** he shouted and was launched to the other side the gate. Such speed, faster than birds of prey or sabre-tooth tigers that propelled him forward. Skathi could hardly believe one could reach such speed.

“Now it is your turn,” Arngeir stated, “Stand next to me. Master Borri will open the gate. Use your Whirlwind Sprint to pass through before it closes.”

Skathi stood next to the speaking monk and calmed herself. This would be somewhat difficult to learn a new way to wield her Voice. Instead of this force effecting others, she would be affecting herself. She would be thrown through the air, nothing else. She tried to loosen her body, but to no avail. This was going to be stressful.

**"Bex!"**

At the sound of Borri’s Voice, the student shouted, **“Wuld!”** and was thrown across the courtyard. She felt as though she were one with the wind, as though Kynareth were guiding her to her target. It was the same way when she loosed an arrow toward its target and it instantly kill its appointed fiend. The only difference was that she was arrow.

Without any sense that time had gone by, she reached the other side of the gate and almost off the cliff behind it. It was exhilarating, if not terrifying. She felt free from this world, if only for a moment. Once Skathi gathered herself, she approached Arngeir for the next lesson.

“Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is astonishing,” the speaking monk remarked, “I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself.” He trailed off, as though in disbelief.

“I don't know how I do it,” Skathi stated, “It just happens.”

"You were given this gift by the gods for a reason,” Arngeir explained, “It is up to you to figure out how to best use it. You are now ready for your last trial.”

“Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav,” he continued, “Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you will return.”

“As you wish,” Skathi replied, bowing her head, “Is it alright if I rest first?”

“You may,” he answered and headed back to the temple.

Skathi sat on the stone and snow in the courtyard, exhilarated by the experience, but it soon faded. It was replaced with a strange serenity. From this mountain peak, nothing could pass through the clouds. It was like all the world’s problem would not reach her here. It felt good, even if guilt gripped her and told her that she should be down there, not up here.

But that was not for today. Today, she meditated at the Throat of the World, breathing in the air as cold as death, but welcoming as the morning sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Skathi had fought many a bandit, necromancer, undead and spider in Ustengrav. This ancient tomb held the final resting place of Jurgen Windcaller, and his horn. Her task was to retrieve this horn, despite the dangers.

This task had left her bloody and harsh. Her sword arm had proven unused to its role and failed to stop her foes’ blades, which Lydia fortunately dealt with. Her bow arm was far more useful, striking down many an unsuspecting creature with a well place arrow. Still, she became drenched in gore from this ordeal and unhappy from the results.

What was worse was what wizards called this tomb home. The undesirable necromancers and conjurers of Tamriel called this place a good laboratory for their wretched machinations. They provided a burden for Skathi and her housecarl, resurrecting themselves the minute one fell to fight the intruders. They all fell, but it was a bloody and exhausting affair.

But finally, they came upon the central chamber which would surely hold Jurgen’s Horn. The room held a bridge against a small body of water, pillars jutting out of the artificial lake to keep the ceiling. At the focus of the room, a sarcophagus lay watched by stone hawk gargoyles. And littering the ground were fallen undead Skathi, nor Lydia, never saw in their lives.

“Someone’s been here,” was all Skathi could conclude

Panicked, she bolted to the sarcophagus. If there were previous visitors, then whether the Horn was there or not was in question. Skathi threw open the ornate coffin and found the Horn was not there.

Resignation and relief were all she could feel to distract from her anger. While someone had stolen her prize, it meant training under the Greybeards was over. They would hopefully excommunicate her, and she could live alone again with no obligations again. Selfish, but only Skathi cared what Skathi wanted, so it was reasonable when you get down to it.

But out of her thoughts, she noticed a piece of paper in Jurgen’s decayed hand. It could hardly be older as old as the coffin around it, as it was in perfect condition, save some stains. Reading it, it was clear it was written by the intruder.

It read, “Dragonborn.  
I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.  
A friend”

Skathi needed to think about this. “Who could do this?” she thought out loud.

“Probably the Companions,” Lydia mused, “They are one of the only groups with the skill to do this without any obvious signs they were here.”

“But what would they want with it?” her thane retorted, “They’re a mercenary outfit, right? Who would hire them for this sort of thing?”

“A collector?” the housecarl speculated, “Maybe it had powers someone might want on their side.”

“Maybe so, but this note implies intent,” her thane retorted, “This is to draw my intention. Who wants my attention?”

“The Companions, but they could just ask while you were in Whiterun,” Lydia dismissed, “One of the factions vying for the throne, but again, they could just ask you.”

“Whoever left this here can’t approach me directly,” Skathi speculated, “They had limited time, they knew what my quest was and could get in and out without a trace.” She continued, “Fuck whoever’s doing this.”

On that note, they left Ustengrav and road to the nearby town of Morthal for lodging. On the way there, Skathi was lost in thought. The question of how they could know what she was out there to do was stuck in her mind. Only she and Lydia knew what they were doing there, besides the Greybeards. Either her housecarl or one of the Greybeards were responsible for this and only one of the Greybeards can speak. They could probably write though.

When they finally reached Morthal, it was just as they left it. It was yet another town of straw roofs, but rivers permeated the ground to be connected by bridges. The hold this town held as capital, Hjaalmarch, had was a massive marsh. Swamps and sparse islands opened the way to this place to the Sea of Ghosts to the north. It was still small compared to the likes of Whiterun.

At what could be considered the jarl’s longhouse, a crowd had gathered. Still a small place, it was only, say, half a dozen at most. Torches in hand, they called for the jarl’s action on something, but it lacked enough context to understand what was going on. A house behind the hall Skathi could see was burned down, so maybe this town had an arsonist about.

Maybe she would check it out later, but she had to get settled it. She found her way to local inn and rented a room. One of the waitresses, Alva, put Skathi off with an aura she was uncertain of, but the outsider and her housecarl made it to their room. Now was the time to ask the big question.

“Lydia,” Skathi inquired, “Are you hiding something?”

The housecarl narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she stated.

“There are only six people who could’ve told someone about our quest,” Skathi stated, “You are one of them.” She continued, “Do you know who stole the Horn?”

Lydia sighed. “I was told to watch over you and report your goings on,” she confessed.

“Why?” her thane asked with a bite, “Who is stole the Horn?”

“I won’t say,” her housecarl replied, “I don’t think they would harm you.” She sighed again, “They were my father’s comrade in arms; for my family’s honor, I can’t tell you.”

“Over your honor as my housecarl?” Skathi inquired.

“A Nord may forsake their jarl, king and cause if it’s for their family,” Lydia stated, “On my father’s grave, I can’t break faith my silence more than this.”

Skathi frowned. “Fair enough,” she remarked, “but you’ll kill whoever this is if they raise swords against me.”

“I will, my thane,” Lydia nodded.

Skathi could hardly blame her housecarl’s resolve. She felt a strong connection to family as well. She could recall small things about them, but they were strong as Skyrim’s northern winds. Playing dress up with her sister, learning the art of trading with her father, grocery shopping with her mother. If she could go back to them, she could, but she could hardly remember where she came from.

All she could remember was blood.

* * *

Jeanne had never seen this many people in one place. The host she marched in was longer than the end of her sight. The Stormcloak warband marched to Whiterun with ten thousand strong. Their goal was to secure the hold, starting with the city, and confirmed whether the Jagged Crown was there or not, that the latter was unwritten. And this was the war beginning in earnest.

It all was terrifying. If Jeanne was going to die, it would be now. If she was to find glory in the war, it would be now. It would be a nine hours march to her death or victory. If she could make it that far and still have the strength to fight, she would truly be called a Stormcloak. It would give those bastards calling her fat something to chew on.

The soldiers ate a hardy breakfast beforehand. Bread, beef, stew and anything that would’ve gone stale or moldy in the storeroom if they left it there. This was so that they were well fed enough to make the journey. In truth, about a dozen had thrown up already. Jeanne wasn’t one of them, but she did vomit in her mouth.

They passed many bandit camps and the like on their way. They might have been bandits or travelers or poachers, but the first was a fair assumption. They didn’t dare try to fight the Stormcloaks in this concentration; no one was that mad. Some soldiers though decided to get some extra kills in while they were passing through. They returned in file as soon as their captain called them back, which was usually just after the bandits were dead.

As evening began, they could see Whiterun ahead of them. Jeanne took this as a sign there was no turning back. If she ran now, she would have broken her oath. Today, she would need to prove herself a warrior, a battlemage, or she would forever been remembered as a coward. She couldn’t live being called a coward like it was an insult. Her uncle’s family were the Cowards.

The warband rest in the fields before the city. To Jeanne’s understanding, there was a dragon attack here that was fought by the Legion forces and Dragonborn. She could only assume they were enjoying fine food and wine and never had to fight again. I mean, that’s how Jeanne would treat those who fought a dragon.

Once the troops were settled in, Galmar gave the order, “Engineers, get the catapults out!”

About a hundred soldiers groaned and picked themselves up. A dozen or so carts rolled up and the soldiers were on them as fast as possible. They picked up lumber and specially crafted metals and began constructing series of catapults. They took less than an hour to get set up.

Out from five special carts, they took rocks that looked as black as ebony stone. They were loaded into the catapults, lit ablaze, and at Galmar’s command, launched into the city. Jeanne hoped no one died in such a nightmarish fashion, crushed by a rock and burned if you survived that. She hoped it was only for show but knew there was someone left to die under one of these.

Jeanne wandered off and found the two left of the original trio she met, Eoni and Mikaela. They were sharpening their blades and counting arrows.

“So,” the unbloodied Breton spoke, “battle is upon us.”

Mikaela nodded. “The war was always going to reach this point,” she remarked, “The fact that no one believed it is a sign no one took this seriously.”

Jeanne nodded. That wasn’t something you could easily argue. “Why are you two join the Stormcloaks?” she asked.

Eoni was fast to answer. “I’m half-Nord,” she explained, “and I feel far more connection with my father’s people than my mother’s. I want to fight for my brethren, though they’re hardly grateful for my presence. How do you think I got my nickname?”

Mikaela answered next. “Any opportunity to oppose the Thalmor,” she stated, “Once Skyrim is ours, we sail to sack the Summerset Isles.”

That sounded weird. “I think we should focus on one war before we start another,” Jeanne suggested. “Why did Ravani join?” she asked.

The pair seemed confused by the question. “I’m not sure I have an answer for that,” Eoni admitted, “Ravani didn’t tell me why. Not like I’m the sort to get an answer from someone like her.”

Mikaela rolled her eyes at that. “Ravani did what she thought was right,” she stated, “We all do. Now, she’s our enemy.”

That last remarked left the Redguard’s mouth with venom dripping out. If Jeanne had to speculate, which she did, Ravani and Mikaela were close in some way. Ravani saying that she would never take a lover may have something to do with it, but they both seemed too distant from anyone around them to make a guess. Jeanne silently told herself not to assume every relationship was romantic or sexual and to leave it alone.

Eoni seemed quick to change the mood of the conversation. “Jeanne, do you wanna get some war paint done?” she asked.

“Alright,” she replied.

The unbloodied Breton followed the half-elf to a tent on the side with an older soldier sat inside. He was crushing yolks and herbs together to make paints. He looked at Jeanne and sighed, though for what reason was mumbled beyond recognition. He picked up a jug that had seen much use it seemed, reached in and his hand came out with blue paint. Jeanne didn’t protest as he used it to paint what she assumed was a two-pronged claw around her eye. Eoni seemed to approve.

Galmar’s voice carried from the frontlines to the end of the camp as he summoned the troops to form up. Everyone packed in tight around the commander as he was stood upon a rock. They were ready to hear his orders.

“This is it, men!” he bellowed, “They say that our cause is false and that we are nothing more than thieves, thugs and murderers! But no! We are farmers! We are craftsmen! We are sons and daughters of shopkeepers, maid servants and soldiers! We are the sons and daughters of Skyrim! And we have come this far because our cause is true. Because we fight as one. And because our hearts are bursting with anger! What we do here today, we do for our country! For all the true Nords of Skyrim!

Whiterun's walls are tall, but they are old and crumbling, like the Empire whose Legion lines them. They've barricades to block us, but we'll tear through them and the Imperials behind them! Our objective is the drawbridge. If we can find a way to drop it, the city will be ours! Everyone on me. Let's show these Imperial milk drinkers what true Nords look like!”

And so, Jeanne followed the Stormcloaks into battle. May Mara have mercy on her, Julianos give her wisdom and Arkay guide her if she fell.

* * *

So, everything that came before had come to this. Ravani beheld Whiterun’s long fields populated with the ten thousand warriors of the Stormcloak warband. They outnumbered the hold guard and Legionnaires by far, having only twenty-six thousand against them. But still, the walls gave them an advantage they would need like a blessing from whatever god the Legion worshipped.

In all honesty, Ravani wasn’t keen on joining the Legion. Their occupation could be delightfully called draconic, with execution without trial and outrageous accommodations Skyrim’s people had to make for them. Not to mention the bad blood between the Empire and Morrowind could be taken as the first sign that Tiber Septim’s legacies was going extinct.

But still, the Stormcloaks couldn’t be left opposed. They were squandering lives for the sake of something the wasn’t even worth it. Granted, Ravani never worshipped any god, but they never did anything for her. Ulfric wanted a dream that wasn’t worth the damn stupid decisions he made, and he was going to keep at it until he died, or reality was somehow going to change around him.

Either way, Skyrim didn’t need this war; they needed to fight the dragons. Yes, dragons. Ravani was conflicted as to whether perpetuating this war was worth it if one dragon being left to its own devices or not. Now that a second dragon was spotted, there was no other answer but to steal the Jagged Crown. Ulfric couldn’t waste any more time.

Of course, saying it should be done and doing it were different things. Ravani was going to fight this battle and make sure Ulfric was stopped here, no further.

The warband ran up the path to the gatehouse and their lack of experience was obvious. Their charge may frighten the defenders, but it wasn’t wise to let their shields down like that. As such, Ravani could easily take a few out with arrows before they even remembered tactics. That’s what you get for building a military without training.

It was easy to pick out prime targets. Officers tended to have those bear-head helms, which were about as useful to archers as painting them bright yellow in a swamp. Still, it didn’t slow the warband’s advance. She knew she had a problem with any authority, but she didn’t think her case wasn’t unique in a military setting. If the Stormcloaks lacked discipline, it would only be a matter of time before the Legion had the chance they needed.

Eventually, Ulfric’s archers managed to pick off most of the soldiers on the battlements, so there was little to be done when they reached the first gate. Ravani bolted past the second gate, knowing the first battalion would fall soon. She took her place on the second set of battlements and prepared to exterminate Stormcloaks like roaches out of a bottle.

When the first gate broke, it was like setting dogs out of a shack twice too small for them. They flooded into the Legion phalanx and archers, costing them a hundred soldiers in two minutes. The Stormcloaks’ lack of discipline was obvious and would cost them today and tomorrow.

But then there was someone Ravani would pay with her life for forgetting: Mikaela. She didn’t know if the Redguard had any other names, but the sight of her on the battlefield, taking a route to the second gatehouse, made the Dunmer’s blood run cold. Mikaela’s skill with a blade and bow had always impressed Ravani and her single-minded approach to killing anyone that picked the “wrong” side of this war was frightening. She was the greatest deterrent to defection the Stormcloaks had.

Mikaela’s dry loosing was going to cost her bow, but it cost the Legion six men before it broke. The Redguard bolted into the gate house and cut down several soldiers with her blade before locking eyes with Ravani. The Dunmer couldn’t help but think this was personal for her, even if it wasn’t directed at her fellow archer in any way.

“I didn’t do it to slight you,” she explained, “I did it for Skyrim.”

Mikaela didn’t answer that and charged Ravani. She tried to take the Dunmer’s head off, but she and dodged enough blades in the streets of Windhelm for her reflex to save her, but not her helmet. Ravani took her dagger and jammed it into her opponent’s stomach, but gods know if she even felt it. Her speed and strength were a terrifying reminder who was afraid of who.

Ravani was forced to abandon her dagger, but it was easily replaced with the archers behind the second gate spotting this situation and loosing a few arrows into the situation. She could dodge a few of them, but a few still hit her by what she could only assume on accident. Mikaela just took a shield from one of the fallen soldiers to keep her from the volley.

At this point, Ravani had the idea to throw her off. Mikaela may be a frightening sword master, but she was only one and the battalion behind her were many. If she could throw the Redguard behind the gatehouse, additional archers could take roost and keep the warband from getting through a little while longer, for there was little chance of fully stopping them here.

She charged her former shield sister with a sword in hand as the volley died down. Mikaela block her with the shield and bashed her to the edge, but she stayed in the gatehouse. Ravani practiced a trick she had developed and pulled herself over the shield to get at its bearer’s rear. As Mikaela bashed the shield upwards into the gatehouse’s roof, the Dunmer remembered who she had trained with. It wouldn’t be easy to use any of her tricks against this woman.

Ravani fell next to the lever to open bridge. She had little she could do to combat the Redguard, but she could sabotage the bridge from opening. She took her dagger from Mikaela’s side and stabbed the mechanism in an exposed area, hoping it would jam the bridge from opening and she snapped the handle off. Then she heard mechanism activate. She had made a mistake.

Mikaela threw her old shield sister out of the gatehouse and the gate opened as she fell, revealing the Stormcloaks awaiting the opportunity to strike. If the fall didn’t hurt, Ravani surely new the meaning of pain as the warband charged the opposing Legionnaires and trampled her. The Dunmer wondered if this was some god’s plan for her as the feet that were breaking her arms and legs met her face and everything went black.

* * *

The Stormcloaks had breached the defenses. They’d broken through the almost every gate and were almost through the last. But they weren’t prepared for two battalions straight down their throat. Half of the first stood in the main road, the other half to the other rout and the last battalion held Dragonsreach. Though the Stormcloaks seemed endless, they were surely too weary to face the ambush.

At least, that was the most Rena could hope for. She was at the front, prepared to jump the invaders the minute they broke through. She knew their battle tactics were sloppy, fighting for their own glory above each other, but they could still do a lot of damage before the arrow or the blade cut them down. Even the untrained can slit the throat of a veteran.

But at the head of the battalion, Tribune Barsotti stood strong. She held her shield high, prepared to kill any who broke through the gate. Despite being an officer for this long, she had the bearing of a field commander who was ready for any enemy. Had she, or any soldier present, seen war or were they bracing for the horrors their mothers told them that their fathers denied?

Barsotti held her sword high. “Give them the glory of Sovngarde and we will all dine in Shor’s Hall!” she cheered.

Sovngarde. Wasn’t that what Nords believed awaited them after death? Rena believed it was an appeal to the locals in their ranks, an attempt to keep them together on the battlefield. Neither were Nords, but it seemed the right thing to say. She was unsure if anything else could motivate them to stay.

“Remember, men!” Ansgar shouted, “They fight for Skyrim, but we fight for all of Tamriel!”

Rena wasn’t sure that was the right thing to say. If she had any time to think about it, she would pick apart every word, but the Stormcloaks were just on the gate. The load slams against wood gave the sound of a battering ram if anyone had to guess. After a banded log broke through the gate, it was all but certain. The battle was upon them.

The soldiers stood with bated breath. If their shields weren’t raised before, they were now. Swords were drawn in anticipation. Archers nocked their bows, some pulling their string in the certainty they would find purchase soon. It was almost time to make war. And with the breaking of the gate, it was now.

And when the Stormcloaks broke through the gate, a spearman turned and tried to put his sword through Ansgar’s throat. The captain deflected the blade easily and smashed his body with his mighty Zweihander. A Legionnaire had turned on his superior officer in the middle of battle.

But that was not the end of it. Maybe half the soldiers behind Ansgar threw their helms aside as the Stormcloaks reached the Imperial lines and joined them. And all of those that turned were Nords. Rena didn’t even know if the ambush was being carried out as they were now down to two hundred Legionnaires, deserters standing right beside them.

Rena fought many of the traitors behind her, some of them she recognized as under her charge. Her first battle as a captain and she had to kill her own men. The first one that went down was hard, but every kill next was numbing. It was not a point of meeting a betrayal; it was surviving the battlefield. They stopped being her failures and started being enemies she needed to slay to survive.

At the gate was Ansgar, his mighty Zweihander cutting down many Stormcloaks with ease. Rena had seen its use in that ill-fated excursion into the Rift and it was just as powerful then as now. Their armor had little bearing on their coming death, whether by the blade’s cut or the force of being thrown. Between this and the way he addressed the soldiers, it seemed he’d be better in this war if he was the only combatant. He soon would be.

But there were others that weren’t so lucky. Barsotti was caught in the eye of the storm of Nords, heavy shields protecting her and other soldiers from the onslaught. Warhammers beat down on their defense and broke shields. Barsotti slew three but was tossed around by others. She was strong, but waning.

Rena tried to break through the chaos to stand with her tribune, but it was too little, too late. Behind Barsotti, one soldier took her by surprise and put a sword straight through a hole in her armor. She screamed in pain but withered out. Her strength left her, her face turned pale and she fell, dead.

Again, Rena’s commander fell in battle. Again, the Legion was failing against the Stormcloaks. Again, Rena failed her duty in Whiterun hold. Her life was forfeit. If she didn’t seize the day and win the battle, despite everything, she would let Arkay take her.  
She cut through the chaos and the Stormcloak lines. It didn’t matter what was ahead of her. She found the soldier that slew Barsotti still hover over her body. The soldier was a Breton with blue paint drawn around her eye like a child playing war. This child would face her vengeance.

The Legionnaire brought her sword down to cut this rebel down, but she wasn’t like the others and caught it. When that didn’t work, Rena bashed her shield against the Breton, throwing her into the smithy’s workbench. The Imperial’s boot would’ve smashed her neck if she hadn’t bolted.

The Breton tumbled through the workplace, dodging the blade behind her with speed one wouldn’t assume from her pudgy frame. She had lost her sword, but that was quickly understood to not be her only weapon. Out of her hand came a barrel of flame, only just blocked by Rena’s shield. A battlemage wasn’t to be underestimated.

Behind the Breton was a forge. Rena saw this as an opportunity if it was still burning. The Imperial bashed her shield forward and the Breton would’ve handled it well if the forge wasn’t behind her. Its form tripped her, and she fell into the fire pit, only to find it cold. Perhaps the smithy saw the battle coming and put it out beforehand. Wise, but inopportune.

Catching her off guard, Rena felt a shield bash forward, into a gutter beside the shop. Her heavy armor combined with the stone floor made the fall even more painful. When she tried to raise herself up, she found the water was not an easy surface for a broken leg to find purchase. From the pain and a crack on the head, Rena lost consciousness.

Her last thought was, “May I not die in a gutter in Skyrim.”

* * *

Jeanne had just narrowly avoided death by a Legion captain thanks to her shield brothers. She gave them a nod of acknowledgement for their actions, which they returned. She knew these soldiers were young and unused to war, but they knew to defend their comrades. If there were more like them, the Stormcloaks could overcome the Legion with just a hundred.

One of the soldiers began to try finding a way into the gutter to cut the captain’s throat. Before he could find it, steel arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him back into a forced fall, crushing his head on the stone road. The assailant, a Khajiit in steel plate, threw the now dead body aside and raised his fist.

“These ones are fools for making war,” he remarked.

The Khajiit began to fistfight the soldiers with swords and shields but not finding failure. Jeanne knew he was going to come after her when he had no one to fight and she bolted.

Jeanne found herself in the alleyways of Whiterun, where wounded soldiers dragged themselves to safety. Her presence there easily stuck out, as she was the only able bodied one among them. She may have been roughed up by the duel with the crazy Imperial, but she could still stand up.

What was worse is that civilians were here too. Men, women and children with a fear of the fires of war were staring at her, praying to every god worshipped not to kill them. Jeanne couldn’t help but feel she had no right to be here. Not in this alley, not in Whiterun, not in Skyrim. This was someone’s home. And she was burning it.

Another Stormcloak found his way here. He too was able-bodied. He looked around the wounded many, including the Legionnaires, and didn’t share the same sympathy. He saw a cluster of Imperials and approached, sword in hand.

Jeanne prepared a fireball to slay him, shield-brother be damned, when a mighty blade came down and sliced into his chest clean. The sword was sheethed by an older warrior in ornate and blood-stained armor who took vigil to the wounded. They didn’t share the same fear as they did with the Stormcloaks. And he looked Jeanne with hardened eyes.

“Run,” he growled like a wolf.

Jeanne bolted.

The Breton soon joined the waves of Stormcloaks marching through the streets. They gave her a shield and she picked up a sword from the fallen. Galmar was barking orders to maintain phalanx after the chaos from before. It worked, and when arrows fell onto comrades, their shield wall kept them alive.

They marched through the streets, moving up the stairs into the Wind District. The volleys were fierce, but they didn’t cut the warriors down. The arrows stuck out of the shields like needles, for they were only just as impactful to a Stormcloak shield wall.  
But when they got out of range of the Legion archers, the young warriors broke apart like pups and began searching for their own glory again. Jeanne frowned, knowing they just lost an advantage because of pride. Galmar tried to summon them back, but it was akin to herding cats and just as pointless. Jeanne could only hope they would see reason soon.

The sentiment was reinforced when the Legion archers began to reorganize on the steps to the Cloud District. The volleys began to fall again, this time strike targets faster and deadlier. Even if they tried to reform the shield wall, it would be futile. The arrows were striking warriors too fast for to rally the troops. They need to take out the archers.

Jeanne knew this. “Brothers and sisters in arms!” she ordered, “To the steps to Dragonsreach! We will have the archers’ heads!”

She didn’t check to see how many warriors followed her, but she knew it was enough to earn the attention of the archers. They began to volley around her specifically, but their arrows didn’t halt her charge. She charged up the steps to the Cloud District and cut the head of the first Legionnaire in her path of his head.

Her rallied brethren cut through the Legionnaires like madmen. Jeanne knew that she could die here. She knew but chose to leave her life in Arkay’s hands. Let him take her if she failed or claimed victory. She deserved it, but Galmar didn’t seem to think so. His war hammer broke through and the rest of the warband was behind him as they charged through the gates of Dragonsreach.

What must have been a company, or more was held up in the keep. Their shields were raised, and their blades were pointed at the Stormcloaks. Stood tallest amongst them was a Dunmer, though she was far shorter than her shield-siblings.

“Halt!” she barked at the intruders, “In the name of the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater.”

A Nord in steel plate and a circlet met the men. “It's a little late for that,” he remarked, “don't you think?”

“Stay back, lord!” the Dunmer begged.

So, this was the Jarl. “I'll be damned if I let this rabble take my city without raising my own sword,” he proclaimed, raising his sword.

“Protect the Jarl with your lives!” the Dunmer commanded.

Jeanne knew it would be a fast fight if she could get to the Jarl. She charged the frontlines and unleashed fire to frighten and burn a hole in their defenses. When the Dunmer tried to take her head off, the bloodied Breton cut through her leather armor and left a gash just under her chest, letting her fall in pain or worse.

The Jarl cried and brought his sword onto Jeanne. He must have missed, as she didn’t feel the slice. He appearance frightened of her. She bashed him around with her blade, trying to pierce his armor, but fruitlessly. But there was a firepit in the court, so Jeanne pushed him into the flames and let her own cook him in his metal cage.

He screamed, “Enough! That's enough. I surrender, I surrender.”

Galmar pulled Jeanne away as the hold guards collected their fallen Jarl. She would’ve let him burn. Did she even know that was wrong?

“Peace!” Balgruuf coughed, “Everyone stand down. That's an order. Stand down!”

“Balgruuf!” came an unfamiliar old voice. A wrinkled and tanned Nord stepped up the stairs to the court, Stormcloak warriors in tow.  
“Vignar Gray-Mane!” Balgruuf growled as soon as he recognized the Nord, “Your family was noticeably absent from the walls. Now I know why. Wouldn't a dagger in the back have sufficed?”

“You think this is personal?” Vignar inquired as he moved past the burned Jarl, “The Empire has no place in Skyrim, not anymore. And you? You have no place in Whiterun anymore.”

Balgruuf looked upon him with disdain. “A convenient position to hold now,” he grimaced, “But mark my words, old man, in the days to come, Ulfric will spread his rebellion thin. And what then? We need the Empire, as much as it needs us. We Nords are the Empire! Our blood built it. Our blood sustains it! You of all people should know that.”

Vignar looked disappointed in his kinsman. “If this was my Empire, I'd be able to worship whoever I damned well pleased. You wish to see an Empire without Talos? Without its soul? We should be fighting those witch-elves, not bending knee to them. The Emperor is nothing more than a puppet of the Thalmor. Skyrim needs a High King who will fight for her, and Whiterun needs a Jarl who will do the same.”

“Tell me, Vignar,” Balgruuf asked, “Was all this worth it? How many of those corpses lining our streets wear the faces of men who once called you friend? What about their families?”

It wasn’t. Jeanne knew that. Did this man?

“Enough! Both of you!” Galmar spoke up, “There is a burning city out there that needs a government."

“He's right,” Vignar agreed, “Galmar, come, let us restore order."

The hold guards began to escort the wounded Jarl and the Dunmer out of the keep. “This isn't over,” he stated, “You hear me, you old fool?! This isn't over! You'll all come to regret this day”

And so, this battle was over. Whiterun was the Stormcloaks’. Jeanne should’ve felt pride or shame for her actions, but she didn’t. She felt rather faint. Galmar came over to her with a shocked expression.

“By the Nine!” he gasped, “How are you still alive?”

Before Jeanne could even find an answer, everything went black for her. That answered his question.


	8. Chapter 7

Before they settled in for the night, something called Skathi. No words mortal ears could hear, but it was just as well; it was more an indistinct summons than any words. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was magicking, but there was something that drew her to the burned down house.

It was around sunset when she went out. Everything looked good at sunset, even the towns activities. Now, they were winding down for the night, with parents guiding their children home and the smell of fresh baked goods to coax them. It put Skathi the mood for apple pie. She hoped there was some freshly baked at the inn.

The outsider was on the road to the burned house when a hand took her by the shoulder and held her back. It was a guard, stiff like oak. Skathi was agitated by it, so broke away.

“You don’t wanna go there,” he warned.

“What’s the story with the burned down house?” she inquired.

“It’s bad luck to talk about that place,” he quaked, “Jarl’s been looking for someone who ain’t superstitious. Be lookin’ for a fool, if you ask me.”

What possible reason could it be that this house was subject to such superstition? Had others heard the call? If so, then they refused it for fear of meeting some hidden threat in the rubble. What happened to this house that such fear could stir in the hearts of the common folk?

With that in mind, Skathi turned to her right and went to the jarl’s conveniently nearby longhouse. Entering it, she found it not as prestigious as Dragonsreach. It was smaller and the wood was less refined, though that was surely the mood around here. This was the boondocks in the shadow of the capital in Solitude.

The jarl herself, Idgrod Ravencrone as she was called, was the old woman on the dais. Despite her age, or perhaps because of it, she had the feeling of a hawk preying on a mouse. Wrinkled skin and greying hair failed to hide her wise and terrible aura that radiated all the way from the doorway.

“So, life has brought you to Morthal, and to me,” Jarl Idgrod remarked on the outsider’s approach, “What purpose this serves, we will no doubt see. Welcome.”

“I hear you want someone to look into that house fire,” Skathi stated, a hand on her sword. She meant it to mean she was interested, but immediate realized it might be misinterpreted as a threat to knock it off.

“Hroggar's house fire?” Idgrod croaked, “He lost his wife and daughter in the blaze. My people believe it to be cursed now. Who am I to gainsay them?”

The outsider needed information. “What does Hroggar say happened?” she inquired.

“Hroggar blames his wife for spilling bear fat in the fire,” Idgrod recounted, “Folks think he set the fire himself.”

“With his wife and child inside?” Skathi exclaimed. What monster would burn is own family alive?

“Lust can make a man do the unthinkable,” Idgrod stated, “The ashes were still warm when he pledged himself to Alva.”

The words on lust resonated in the outsider. Something came out from a place she could hardly remember, but a primal rage took hold and informed her to seek revenge for the dead. She figured this was just what anyone would do, but something nagged at her, saying this meant something more.

“And you haven’t arrested him?” Skathi asked.

“On rumor and gossip?” Idgrod croaked, “No. But you, a stranger, might find the truth for us. Sift through the ashes that others are too fearful to touch. See what they tell you. Should you prove him guilty or innocent, I will reward you.”

“Very well,” Skathi replied and left the longhouse.

The outsider went back to the house to search it. The building had hardly a wall still standing, the wood turned grey like ash, as was the ground around it. It was as if the life had been drained from this place, which was close to the truth of it. Save for the fact that Skathi found a specter in the corner.

The ghost of a little girl, colored like pale blue glass, was stood in the ruins of the house. At its sight, Skathi was spooked and jumped back, drawing her dagger before questioning its effectiveness. On a second looked, she seemed mostly oblivious to the outsider, so she sheathed her blade.

“Who are you?” Skathi asked.

“Helgi,” the ghost girl replied without any sense she was dead, “But father says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. Are you a stranger?”

“Is Hroggar your father?” Skathi asked.

“You know him?” Helgi responded with a question, “He made my favorite dolly, but I can’t find her. Are you sure you aren’t a stranger?”

“No, I’m a friend,” the outsider stated, “Do you know what happened to your house?”

She reacted to that. “The smoke woke me up,” the ghost girl trembled, “It was hot, and I was scared, so I hid. Then it got cold and dark. I’m not scared anymore.” She paused before saying, “But I’m lonely. Will you play with me?”

“If I do, will you tell me who lit the fire?” Skathi bargained. She hoped this would work, as she had hardly even seen a child in years. She hoped she still knew what they liked and how they acted.

“Okay!” Helgi cheered, “Let’s play hide and seek. You find me and I’ll tell you. We have to wait for nighttime though. The other is playing too, and she can’t come out until then.”

Skathi was worried. “The other one?” she asked in dread, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you,” Helgi quaked, “She might hear me. She’s so close.” She continued, “If you find me first, I can tell you.”

And the ghost girl was gone. Skathi was upset at the possibilities this meant. Whoever else was playing hide and seek with them knew Helgi was a ghost, which might have been anyone if the townsfolks’ reaction was anything to go on. Still, they might be whoever burned the house down and killed her. She would need to approach this carefully.

But first, apple pie.

* * *

The pain in her arm was enough to tell Rena she was still alive. She’d landed on part of her arm in the fall and surely the dead don’t feel pain. Surely, if she were dead, she wouldn’t feeling a ringing in her head, a spine that felt like gravel and a thigh that felt like it exploded. All in all, it felt like she was dragged for five miles for ten minutes.

A sudden bump woke her woke her up, practically reawakening her wounds. She sat up, steadying herself with her unbroken arm, and saw her situation. She was on a cart filled with the injured. She tried to look around, but her hurt to move even her eyes. Her arm soon grew sore, so she propped herself up on the side of the cart, being the closest to the front.

She saw the soldiers in pain before her. They looked like they were trying to sleep, but too in pain to reach it. Tears painted faces so young to this world that they may stay another forty years if the wounds and scars of this battle don’t kill them. Even the barest look around Rena could accomplish revealed there was far more than one cart.

Beside her was the Dunmer that gave them the Jagged Crown, Ravani Faren, also on the front of the cart. She was more successfully unconscious. Rena wondered how someone just as old as the other soldiers came to sleep so fast. She didn’t know what motivated her to even join the Stormcloaks in the first place, but she could figure why she betrayed them.

But something a little more pressing was a Khajiit in steel plate sitting on the edge of the cart. He wore no uniform, so he couldn’t be one of the Legion. His presence was bizarre, thinking about how there were probably hundreds dead and this guy is just here.

“Oh, that’s Mariqa,” a familiar voice explained, “He kinda saved your life.”

Riding alongside the cart was Ansgar. Rena didn’t understand his concern, but when she noticed that one of the injured was the Orc often seen with him, it made sense. She wondered if he was concerned for herself and the other soldiers.

“You’re awake, it seems,” Ansgar remarked.

Hearing his voice was more painful than normal. “What happened?” she asked, despite every word being laced hurting to get out.

He sighed. “I ordered a retreat,” he explained, “When the Stormcloaks reached the keep, the battle was lost. I was the only officer that was confirmed alive, so I led the Legion in full retreat.” He added, “We’re on our way to Falkreath to recover.”

Rena couldn’t help but address the obvious. “This is partially your fault, you know?”

Ansgar couldn’t help but grimace. “I wasn’t sure what I was thinking when I said that,” he stated.

“It wasn’t a good idea.”

“I know!”

In hindsight, his declaration of “They fight for Skyrim, but we fight for all of Tamriel,” wasn’t wise. They were in Skyrim, fighting alongside Nords that most likely were born here. They most likely had trepidations fighting the Stormcloaks that weren’t soothed by Ansgar’s words. For all she knew, Tribune Barsotti didn’t say the right thing.

And Barsotti was dead. That still didn’t grieved Rena. She seemed like a good person, cut short by a sword. This was the second time she lost a commanding officer in the week. What sort of curse was following Rena? A dragon attacked her post, the leader of the opposition escaped on her watch, the attempt to capture him again failed miserably, a dragon attacked again, and she lost a crucial battle in the war. With Daedric prince had it in for her?

But something else crossed her mind. “Why didn’t you use your Shout?” she asked Ansgar.

The captain grimaced. “I have my reasons,” he stated.

“The Empire would like to hear them,” Rena replied.

Ansgar sighed. “I was taught that my gift wasn’t to be used for war and glory,” he explained, “I vowed never to use it against anyone except enemies of Skyrim. As much as it pains me, the Stormcloaks are part of Skyrim, so I won’t use it against them.”

Fair enough. His thoughts were of his honor. Rena still wondered how the battle may have turned out if he used the Shout. Barsotti may be still alive, along with the many a Legionnaire. She wasn’t sure honor would be enough to explain it to the dead why they won’t they see their families for a long time.

When the survivors reached Falkreath, it was safe to heal their injuries. The healers went around the converted hospice of an inn with potions and magics but could only do so much. The Orc Ansgar so favored was taking to recovery quite badly. He apparently had a seriously leg injury that had progressed to a point where treatment was difficult. He might not be able to march again.

Rena, meanwhile, was told that he coming to consciousness was a good thing. If she slept any longer, she could’ve died. They tried to give her a potion, but she threw back up. They applied restoration spells to her head before giving her another and she kept it down this time. She was told she could sleep now.

But something that kept her up was rumors. It was believed that Stormcloaks would use their momentum from the capture of Whiterun to launch an attack on Falkreath. Others thought they would want to secure the rest of Whiterun Hold before expanding, but that didn’t dissuade their fears. The able Legionnaires were even preparing to bolt at dawn’s first light.

But still, Rena needed to sleep. She found the impromptu barracks they made from the Jarl’s longhouse and plopped down onto a bedroll. Her injuries were still stinging, but she was too tired to bother and slept like a rock.

A rock prepared to bolt when the river arrives.

* * *

Skathi usually never spent long eating, as the frozen tundra and mountain range was home to enough predators that feast was unwise. However, she was having apple pie for dinner and wanted to savor this dish she had gone so long without. It was the sunset when she started and night when she finished. This was special.

When she noticed the dark skies and moons, she realized Helgi was waiting on her and bolted to the ruined house. She would soon learn who this other who knew she was a ghost, and perhaps her murderer. This was a truly strange endeavor, but Skathi being Dragonborn sort of trumped that. She was most likely at the start of her new and bizarre life.

In the ashen house, Skathi found Helgi was gone. She had not reappeared since their first meeting and it worried Skathi. Something must have happened for this to come about. She searched around the ruin, but there were so few places anyone could hide. Desperate, she ran behind the house in search of anything and was shocked by what she saw.

A woman in strange, seductive armor stood over a coffin, small as if to accommodate a child with a shovel. Her face was unnaturally contorted and feral, almost like she was a beast in human skin. Her eyes were a glowing orange, like fire.

Her fanged teethed grit as she threw the shovel aside and held her hand out to expel a flood of monstrous red energy. It swarmed around Skathi like a wave of misery. It felt like the life was leaving her, like she was drowning above water and she could still move.

Skathi would not want to die like this, so she drew her sword and attempted to charge the strange woman. The energies slowed her, like wadding through water. By the time she got close enough to stab her opponent, she had drawn her own sword. There was barely any time to block her first swing.

Lydia had been teaching her thane how to use the sword more proficiently. There were few swords in the wilderness, and she was more used to the bow anyway. With her return to civilization, her housecarl had figured some instruction would improve her chances in a fight. Still, she was hardly a master, not even adept at the craft.

But then again, neither was the stranger. When Skathi swung her sword at her, she blocked, but it was weak, and the edge of her own blade was pushed into her face. She stubbled back, a gash in her face, dazed, and the energies faded. Seeing the opportunity, Skathi lunged her sword into the stranger’s chest. The stranger fell, dead, her burning eyes extinguished.

Her opponent dead, Skathi turned her attention to the child sized coffin.

“You found me!” Helgi’s voice came from the box, “Laelette was trying to find me too, but I’m glad you found me first.”

Hearing a child’s voice from a coffin was terrifying. Skathi had rarely seen a coffin in life, maintaining their unsettling effect in her eyes. The child’s voice made it worse. Out respect for the dead, took the shovel and began burying the box again.

“Laelette!” a man’s voice came from behind her, “She’s dead!”

Skathi turned around and saw a Nord man with sad eyes. He looked around thirty years old, but lines and wrinkled aged him another ten. He seemed in mourning. He ran to the dead body of the stranger and look it over.

“Ysmir’s beard!” he exclaimed, “She’s, she’s a vampire!”

So, that’s what she was. Skathi realized this man knew the stranger, so figured he might have some useful knowledge of her. Her vampirism being a surprise cast some doubt on that. Still, it was better than nothing.

“What can you tell me about Laelette?” she inquired.

“She’s, was my wife,” the sad Nord stated, “I thought she ran off to join the Stormcloaks.” He began to cry, “Ah! My poor Laelette!”

Skathi was discomforted going down to line of questions but need to continue. “Did you notice anything strange before she left?” she asked.

“She began to spend a lot more time with Alva,” he recalled, “Yet just a week before, she despised her. In fact, the night before she disappeared, she was supposed to meet Alva. Alva told me she never showed up.” Tears began to leave the corners of his eyes and surrounded their bottoms. “I never got to tell her goodbye,” he cried.

Skathi could only come to one grime conclusion. “I think they may have met after all,” she speculated.

Alva was a vampire. Whatever her game was, it was surely foul to include a man’s wife behind his back and corrupt her like that. There was probably something at foot.

“You think Alva,” the sad Nord pondered, “but that means.” His eyes grew wide. “Ye gods! You think Alva is a vampire?”

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Skathi grimly muttered.

“No! You’re wrong,” he barked back, choking down tears, “You must be wrong. Laelette may have met her fate out in the marsh. I refuse to believe Alva had anything to do with this. There is no way you can prove it to the jarl.”

He left her at the burial, saying, “I hope Alva is not what you think.”

Left with a half-buried coffin and a woman’s corpse, Skathi was back to burying the box. She hoped Alva was not a vampire as well. It meant she would have to kill her. A creature like that cannot be allowed to live, feeding on flesh and blood. Thinking about made her hands shake, but she was unsure why.

After the coffin was back in the ground, Skathi took a plank and carved “Helgi” onto it, putting in just above the disheveled dirt. One grave dug, she took to burying the woman she killed and marking her grave as well. It took no pride in the deaths she caused.

Two grave dug, wooden planks for makeshift tombstones, Skathi left them there to continue her investigation. There was only one way to prove Alva was a vampire and that was to check her house for something, anything. A corpse, a journal, a confession, anything. It was illegal, and most likely difficult to do without attention, so she would need to prepare.

* * *

Six arrows. When Jeanne came to, she discovered that she had six arrows in her torso from the Legion archer and a slash from her shoulder to her stomach from Balgruuf’s sword. It was shocking news. How few could say this happened to them? She honestly didn’t register that she was so rent. Perhaps her old habits had found new ways to appear in her life.

She found her armor from the battle. She could point to every place an arrow pierced her body. It was horrifying to find a map of every wound that should’ve killed her. This cuirass wasn’t going to be of much use anymore, nor did Jeanne want to have it repaired. This was a reminder of how close she came to death; no one just wants one of those.

In the meantime, Jeanne chose to wear a set of robes typically used by the monks that mended her. Of course, they didn’t hide who she was to others. Everyone could tell she was “the Breton of One Arrow Short” and “the Slayer of Greater”, whatever they meant. All she knew was that many found her some sort of legend.

She didn’t feel like a legend. Jeanne did as she was ordered to claimed Whiterun for Ulfric, as bloody a business as this was. Perhaps so many arrows piercing her body but not killing her was of note, but she felt no pride in that. Perhaps being the one to fight Balgruuf was important, but she felt shame in that. What she had done had brought war and death to Whiterun, not make it a better place. Only the townsfolk could say if she had done the right thing.

To Jeanne’s understanding, there was a feast in Dragonsreach which she was invited to. If she was asked to an event such as this it was because she was notable enough to earn the attention, and it would be inappropriate to decline, so she chose to accept it. If she were to decline such an invitation in High Rock, she would be a fool in the eyes of the court and to have shown disdain to the host, so she didn’t want to see how they would react in Skyrim.

Her approach to the keep was noted by others, guards and citizens included. The guards were fellow Stormcloaks and gave her signs of respect. The citizens were mixed, some spitting as she passed and others showing their appreciation. She noticed a lot of the citizens that took displeasure with her weren’t Nords. She could’ve been seeing what she thought, or it was just as she thought, and she was a tool against anyone who wasn’t born Nord.

When she entered Dragonsreach, Jeanne was met by an old woman of snarky disposition. “Hold there, little girl,” she barked at the Breton, “You won’t be showing up to the feast looking like a monk.”

Jeanne looked at the woman with a frown. She had dealt with crotchety old women before and they weren’t fun. “Then what do you suggest I wear?” she retorted.

The old woman took a satchel from the side of the room and handed it over. “Here,” she frowned, “A gift from your Stormcloak friends.”

Within the satchel was hide armor with a bear-head helm. Jeanne understood this as an officer’s uniform. All these accolades attributed to her were amazing, unbelievable. She wasn’t sure she had earned these things, but she would accept them for now.

She donned the armor, thanks to the maids’ sense of modesty around her, and climbed the steps to the room where she decided Whiterun’s fate. The court was full Stormcloaks, warriors, officers and allies. They cheered at her approach and she felt flattered by their acclaim.

Jarl Vignar himself, at the head of the table beside Galmar, stood and raised his drink to say, “Hail to Jeanne, who would only fall to nine arrows! Who fought Balgruuf the Greater and won! Who is now a true daughter of Skyrim!”

The guests cheered as she took a seat. So, that’s what the titles meant. She was sure how you get “the Breton of the One Arrow Short” out of six arrows instead of nine. Perhaps someone miscounted or exaggerated, and it was considered a sign Talos was with her. Numbers and all were significant to those who can’t count.

The feast was grand, with much ripe meat and fine mead. There was cheer at a battle hard fought and Ulfric’s war was going well. Jeanne saw many people of significance there, those she learned were of Clan Gray-Mane and Battle-Born, merchants of high regard, and warriors that fought in this battle.

But still, Vignar was distracted. Jeanne noticed that the new Jarl was agitated by something, but nothing that was there. She could only assume he was expecting someone, but she couldn’t think of any think. All his clan was there, save a son his family missed. The rich of the city was there, though they did have to throw someone out for lording his false wealth around some of the women there. There wasn’t anyone Jeanne could think of, but she believed they were important.

Suddenly, the doors were thrown open with calamitous anger. The hall quickly grew silent at the approach of a small band of warriors. They were mostly Nord, garbed in numerous forms of armor, but at the front was the old warrior in ornate armor that chased Jeanne off during the battle. She shrunk in her seat, but they ignored her. They went right up to the jarl instead.

He seemed pleased. “Ah, my friends!” he greeted, “You are far from fashionably late, but I don’t care. You will always welcome in Dragonsreach.”

Their leader didn’t say a word. Instead, he brought his axe down on the table, right between Vignar and Galmar. He let go.

“You have brought grief to Whiterun, Vignar,” the leader growled, “You ate in our halls, but you didn’t know we would defend this city and its people from invasion. You told us to join the Stormcloaks in battle, but we defended our hall instead. We won’t join this war.”

Vignar nodded. “But you would wish war between us, Kodlak?” he asked.

The old warrior glared. “For my neighbors,” he stated, “For Whiterun. Would you?”

The Gray-Mane sighed. “As Jarl,” he replied as he took the axe, “I go to war for my people.”

Kodlak smiled. “So, will you join our feast?” Vignar asked.

The older warrior smirked. “No,” he replied, “Not now.”

And the warriors left, a member of the Gray-Manes even following them out. Jeanne wasn’t sure what that was about. She hoped this wouldn’t be an issue in the future.

The rest of the night was full of feasting and drink, but Jeanne couldn’t find cheer. She almost died. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The moment she was perhaps destined to have came and went without issue. She wasn’t sure if that meant she was lucky or that death wouldn’t find her on the battlefield. There were probably people that deserved it more. A little bit of the piss water they called mead might fix that thought.

* * *

“Dammit,” Skathi cursed, punctuating another failure.

Lockpicking was rarely a skill she had ever practiced. A stubborn chest or a locked door where there might be items of interest, she would try to crack them, but they were few and far between. She would more often abandon locks she spent what she thought was too long on them, depending on how many wrenches were lost and how fast in the endeavor. So far, she was considering giving up, as she was six wrenches out of eight spent.

And that was only one reason, as guards patrolled the night. If they saw her breaking in, they would surely put a sword to her throat. She did not explain her situation though, lacking any trust in them that most citizens would have. Or perhaps they did not, but that was irrelevant to Skathi’s feelings. She also had distrust for the jarl, but that was tempered by the knowledge she had of her; she just distrusted anyone called a jarl on instinct.

Skathi tried a seventh time to unlock the door. Tumblers clicked and scrapped against the pick and wrench. The sound of the first pin sliding into place was as familiar as your face in the mirror at this point. Second pin followed, though the third had seemingly disappeared again. A little finagling and she found it was already in place, forgetting it had seemingly broken before she had even seen the lock. Fourth was almost impossible to perfect nail down, but it still found itself where it should be.

The fifth was surely the biggest bane out of all. Three times, it failed to reach into place. Three times, the wrench would break from the strain. With little patience left, she tried again, this time in complete meditation. High Hrothgar’s serenity allowed her to unlock a peace she thought impossible, if she only calmed herself enough. Without thought, the last pin was put in place and Skathi entered the house.

The outsider snuck through the door and spotted a man in bed, deep in sleep. She left him alone, even though she believed he was Hroggar. His punishment would come someday. Perhaps in Coldharbour.

Skathi found this was rarely out of the ordinary. One room, a pot of uncooked feed on the hearth, cabinets and the odd chest abound, an extra bed by the door. It seemed to lack anything unique, save the stairway to a basement. The outsider figured if there was ever a place to hide something, be it a body or other illegal things to have, it would be down there.

The basement seemed an unremarkable room, save the open coffin in the center of the room. Candelabras set around the box were the sole source of light in this dead place. Skathi felt if she stared long enough, the shadows would give way to bloodstains on the walls and floor.

Inside the coffin was red leather journal. Reading it, Skathi’s suspicions and more were confirmed. Alva was vampire, turned by someone named Movarth. She had seduced Hroggar to guard her coffin in the daytime, even before the arson. She had turned Laelette to sate herself and keep as a handmaiden, spreading the rumor she left to join the war herself. However, Laelette killed Hroggar’s family, not Alva. What’s more, she developed a fixation on Helgi, even trying to turn her and botched it.

What was even worse was their plan. Movarth planned to turn the guards to vampirism and use them with the might of their coven to take Morthal of themselves. This was more than neighborhood scandal; this was a coup. The jarl would need to know.

Skathi quickly snuck back out the front door and bolted down the walkways. The guards either did not notice or did not know she came from someone else’s house. They could not stop her anyway, as her stride was built up over the years to outrun an elk when she was hungry. It did not take long to reach the jarl’s longhouse, though she stubbled as she approached the dais.

“Is Hroggar innocent or not?” Idgrod asked, unphased by the running Nord.

Skathi took a breath. “Alva set the fire,” she reported, simplifying things for the sake of brevity, “She’s the murderer.”

Idgrod raised an eyebrow. “Alva?” she questioned, “Didn’t think she had it in her.”

“Actually, she’s a vampire,” the outsider stated, “She planned to enslave the town.”

“I assume you have proof?” the jarl requested, “Can’t go making accusations like that without proof.”

“I have Alva’s journal,” Skathi stated, showing her the incrimination page.

“So, it’s true,” Idgrod remarked, bile at the edge of her lips, “That traitorous bitch!” She looked up at the outsider, “Morthal owes you a dept.”

She took out a purse and slapped it in Skathi’s hand. “Here. You were promised a reward for solving the crime,” she stated, “but I need one more favor from you.” She continued grimly, “Morthal is still in danger. This journal mentions Movarth, a master vampire I thought was destroyed a century ago. I’ll gather some able-bodied warriors to clean out Movarth’s lair. They’ll be waiting outside for you to lead them.”

“I will,” Skathi nodded.

Before long, a mob of citizens were stood outside, torches in hand, blades strapped to their belts. The outsider took one of own and mounted her horse, leading them to the edge of town. With the help of villagers, she was put on the right path to Movarth’s lair. “Kill the beast!” they chanted all the way there.

On the way there, it set in that this was a far more dangerous undertaking than perhaps any here could comprehend. They were going to fight a vampire that had escaped death one before. He had ambitions to claim Morthal in his name. He would not be a bandit a strong sword arm could take. Perhaps they would fail and die, but they make one glorious end of it. That idea lacked any appetizing implications.

When they came upon his lair, a cave, Skathi dismounted and told the lot of them, “Kill the beast!”

They barely slowed down throughout. Woodsmen’s axes burst the heads of spiders to begin with, but then they came across those enthralled by vampiric powers. They were harder to kill but fell just the same.

What was far less easy were the vampires. A coven called this place home, so of course they would fight like animals to defend it. Blood was spilled and drain, but at the front was a Redguard, swinging his great war hammer and taking out half a dozen of their lot at once. This man broke the defense and Skathi followed him further.

Soon, they came across a monstrous banquet. Dead bodies lay on a long table, with the head of it sitting with pride like a king. At the sight of intruders, he called his guest to raise and draw blades. This would be the bloodiest fight of all.

“Here,” the Redguard spoke in a voice as deep as shadow, “You’ll need it.”

He handed Skathi an axe, sharp and intricate. When the vampires fought them, it cleaved through their flesh faster than Skathi’s own sword. It seemed in the same vein as the Redguard’s war hammer. It implied he knew a thing or two about vampires. Did he know they were here?

Interrupting that thought was Movarth nearly taking Skathi’s head of with a swing from his sword. With the axe, she was hardly able to duel. She could barely hook the blade from striking her face. Locked in this, the Redguard smashed the vampire master off her and threw him onto the table, but he landed on his feet. This would take more than mortal blades.

**“Fus ro!”**

The Shout broke his resolve and he stubbled to his knees. Before he finished falling, Skathi brought her axe on his head. It tore off, spraying blood across the blood and floor. The creature screamed as its skin burned away into ash. It was over.  
But Skathi’s hand was still shaking. Why? Why had this unnerved her?

Alva was nowhere to be seen, but she would surely be hunted down with the townsfolk on the prowl.

Skathi turned to the Redguard. “Thanks for the axe,” she remarked.

“I’ll need it back,” he stated.

The hunt over, Skathi was willing to give it back. “Where’d you get it?” she asked as she handed it over to the Redguard.

“I made it,” he explained, “Vampires need specialized weapons to efficiently kill them.”

This raised a question: why did he have these weapon? While Skathi wasn’t most people, but she knew they wouldn’t expect to meet a vampire, so his readiness was unusual. And why, of all places, did he manage to end up here at the right moment? It wasn’t like anyone knew vampires were in the area until tonight, so it was quite a mighty coincidence. Skathi wouldn’t press the issue though; too late in the day for discussion.

She led to the townsfolk back to town, where they went back to their homes. It had been a long night, and everyone was tired. Skathi came back to the inn and fell into her bed, relieved.

“So, you had a good night out?” Lydia asked.

“Fuck you, Lydia,” Skathi groaned and she passed out.


	9. Chapter 9

Early in the morning, Jeanne was deployed again. Some of the other soldiers and officers had been taken aback by Western Skyrim seasoning, finding the spice too strong for the use of a chamber pot to be in their near future. Jeanne meanwhile was used to the spices, as cinnamon, cardamom, mace and others were common in High Rock due to trade deals, so she maintained her composure. Galmar looked at this and thought she was best for the assignment he had in mind.

Jeanne and a host of Stormcloaks rode to Rorikstead. Now, the town of Rorikstead was within Whiterun’s jurisdiction, but they still needed to confirm their loyalty to the new Jarl. No one had been sent out to confirm it, and other officers were sent to confirm loyalty from the rest of the hold. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to violence.

Upon their approach to the same burg, they found it was a typical small town, with hay for roofing and crops on the sticks. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary until they noticed there wasn’t anyone on the grounds. A rather large thing not to notice immediately, but they had been worn from last night’s feast; give them a break.

They checked around and found the largest building in town was the Frostfruit Inn. They figured it was the only place that would hold all the townsfolk. The party drew sword and prepared to investigate. The minute Jeanne open the door, a yellow shield bashed her in the face, causing her to stumble off the porch. Thankfully, no arrows flew out the doorway.

“You brigands are unwelcomed in my town!” came an older voice from the inn, “Leave now and you will live!”

Jeanne thought this was misguided. “Sire, we are Ulfric Stormcloak’s men,” she explained, “and we are here to confirm loyalty to Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane.” She had to ask another soldier if she got the name right.

“That’s even worse!” the voice cried, “I rebuilt my namesake city and now it’s at the mercy of an old bastard that doesn’t understand why Ysgramor doesn’t visit him anymore!”

“Excuse me,” a spine-chilling voice spoke, “what’s going on here?”

Jeanne turned to the source and found two women, both in armor. One was dressed in uncolored guard’s armor with pitch black hair and the other was in steel Nord armor with furs and brown hair. They seemed mercenary. The Breton was incredulous.

“A sellsword doesn’t need to know Stormcloak operations,” one of the soldiers, Barisen, stated, “Hawklsy, we should kill them.”

Jeanne raised a hand to silence him. She didn’t need any encouragement one way or the other. “What’s your business in Rorikstead?” she inquired.

“Passing through,” the seeming mercenary replied, “I’m heading to Riverwood.”

Jeanne made note of that. “Do you think I could hire you to help with this?” she asked.

The stranger gave a confused look. “I’m not a mercenary,” she explained, “What do you even need help with?”

Jeanne was hesitant to tell her any details. “Dealing with loyalty issues,” she explained, “No need to concern yourself with something like this.”

The Rorik of Rorikstead must have heard that. “I’ll never bow to that backwards bastard!” he proclaimed.

“Sounds like a handful,” the stranger remarked, “I think I’ll leave.”

Just as Jeanne was about to reply, she smelled the familiar scent of something burning. She turned around and saw a soldier, Runleif, with a torch moving towards the hay roof. She immediately bolted at this arsonist and tackled him to the ground. Of all the things she would be guilty of, this was one she could not stand.

“They’re not listening to us!” the soldier explained himself.

“Then it’s a bad thing I’m your officer!” Jeanne barked by.

She dragged him to his feet and had two soldiers hold him back. She had the soldiers hold Runleif in front of the porch while she took something from her satchel. It was a battle-axe given to her for one reason and one reason alone. She brought it over to Runleif and took his head from his body.

“This man tried to burn this inn to the ground!” Jeanne explained, “I didn’t let him hurt your people and I won’t let anyone hurt them as long as I live. I swear that as a daughter of Skyrim!”

Rorik of Rorikstead didn’t immediately answer. As a Breton, she wasn’t someone would consider a child of Skyrim, even in the Reach. As a Stormcloak, she would be an extremist, but only with Skyrim’s interests in mind. She was a bizarre combination to most, and she knew it. She just hoped that meant Rorik would see this as a reason to trust her.

“You realize this isn’t right, right?” he asked, “A Jarl is chosen by a moot of the people. I can’t see anyway the people would want Balgruuf replaced, nor do we honor the right of conquest. This civil war is wrong and Ulfric needs to know this.”

Jeanne was unfamiliar with Nord traditions, so she would have to take his word for it. The people deciding their leaders seemed easier to manipulate than the course of a war though, so she wasn’t impressed with the moot. Maybe that was the High Rock in her thinking, but she knew politics were easy to anyone smart enough to use them. War is a little harder to debate.

“If it’s any consolation,” the Breton remarked, “an older fellow Kodlak is unhappy with this whole affair.”

“Wait a minute,” Rorik said in shock, “Kodlak Whitemane isn’t happy with the change in leadership?”

“Yup,” Jeanne replied, confused, “Is this Kodlak Whitemane of note?”

And then a man in his middle years exited the inn. “If the Companions don’t like it, it must be good,” the man, Rorik it turned out, remarked, “Those mercenaries could be paid for anything.”

Jeanne was confused but relieved this ended without bloodshed. She would have to do some research into why the name of the Companions was so reviled that they could change opinions so drastically like that, but she at least had something good to tell the Jarl.

The stranger was still there. “I guess I’ll stay here for lunch?” she stated, just as confused as Jeanne.

* * *

The Falkreath graveyard was a strange place. Rena knew it was a place of the honored dead, as they didn’t dig your grave here without good cause. Some warriors would face the full force of the Aldmeri Dominion’s army to earn a place here and they did. Falkreath saw many battles and many warriors to defend the hold, so many believe being buried amongst them is a glorious end to life. Ask the residents of Falkreath if it’s a great honor.

Rena took a walk in the graveyard. It’s said you should visit it if you ever go to Falkreath, perhaps to find an honor ancestor or take a breath of Nord history. The Imperial knew she wouldn’t find a Donton here, instead looking for a Wolf-Runner. Find one of Skathi’s kin here would say great things of where she came from, Rena supposed.

In honest, Rena had little tolerance for ancestral bragging. Most children she grew up around would brag about being descended from this lord or that champion, but she would always be mocked for her family. A noblewoman from a respected family was her mother and a man many wouldn’t talk about was her father out of wedlock. No one loved a bastard, and everyone knew it. How many people still deny Martin Septim’s illegitimacy was crushing.

Still, Rena was doing this for a friend, knowing it would mean a lot to her. She looked around the yard for anyone with the name Wolf-Runner, but it was three thousand years vast, almost unending. However, she did find the name. Many gravestones bore that name. How common was this name that she only heard of one who bore it, but many of dead shared it? Was Falkreath her home?

Then there was a sound from the mist. The sound of a twig snapping. Rena drew her sword. She searched the fog carefully, for signs of life. She saw the forest at the yard’s end. It must have been from there. She slowly approached the woods, hoping for an animal or a child exploring.

She found a bear staring at her. She was about to step back to not provoke the animal, but she found something off about it. Its head was easily visible, but not its body. If it was crouching, then it was hiding behind a bush it couldn’t possible than a bear that size should. When she looked into its eyes, there was no life in them. And then she remembered how Stormcloak officers dressed.

Ambush.

Rena grabbed the horn at her side and blew hard into it. It was meant to summon reinforcements if need be and the Stormcloaks would surely the time for it. Not three seconds and an arrow pierced the fog and scarred her cheek. They missed once, but she wouldn’t count on being so lucky the second time.

Knowing she wouldn’t have an advantage in the open, Rena bolted, but an arrow to her leg made that impossible. She fell in pain as the Stormcloaks behind her got closer without needing to look behind her. She tried to crawl away, but she didn’t get very far when a boot smashed onto the wound. Her biting pain went almost blinding.

She looked up to the Stormcloak soldier and fumed. She didn’t see his expression, but assume it was one of pride for capturing and torturing an Imperial. It was pure impulse that compelled her to put draw her sword. It seemed like he was going to say something or move away, but it was cut short by the blade to his chest, straight through the heart. As he fell, his comrades looked shocked, but now prepared to kill her with no mercy.

Suddenly, from the other side of the graveyard was the sound of thundering footsteps. Rena looked and Ansgar was running toward the scene with Mariqa and seven Imperial soldiers in tow. The Stormcloak officer brought his war-hammer to meet him, but it broke as the mighty captain’s Zweihander slashed through his handle and into his chest.

As the soldiers took her away, Rena couldn’t help but think how useful Ansgar was in a fight. He read Nords like they were written in a dead language, but his sword arms could break them in half. His greatsword technique was solid and was hardly standard issue to any military. If they were to have a company of swordsmen like him, it could give them an advantage. Of course, a hundred Ansgars was probably the worst thing that would ever happen to the Legion. Just the technique would do.

As they brought her through town, Rena spotted a worrisome sight. Dengeir of Stuhn was rabble rousing. He was the former jarl of Falkreath, stepping down due to failing health in these trying times. At least, that was the public explanation. Privately, it was probably the same thing, or the Empire wanted someone who wasn’t a Stormcloak sympathizer in charge of the region. That was the rumor but had little proof. That didn’t stop Dengeir.

He spoke of how the Stormcloaks were only interested in this place because of recent events surrounding the Legion. A lie; Ulfric would still want this hold if it didn’t let the Legion rest went it was hurting. He said that Jarl Siddgeir, his nephew, was a sloth and greedy creature and no true Nord. Probably, but appeals to purity are unwise if they find you’re impure. And he was saying the Imperials would only defend Falkreath because it was on the only safe road to Cyrodiil. Perhaps, as it certainly wasn’t for people like him.

At the Dead Man’s Drink, Rena and Ansgar discussed the situation.

“They were scouts,” Ansgar reported, “They were only here to observe.”

Rena had her leg laid out on a bench and was downing a small potion, the size being to not put too much strain on her body. “They don’t seem to have the momentum we first assumed,” she remarked, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming soon.”

Ansgar nodded. “We don’t have the soldiers for the siege,” he stated, “Even with the hold guards, we wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. We may need to pull out.”

The Imperial regretfully nodded. They had less than two hundred soldiers, most were injured. They wouldn’t last.

After an hour, the captains ordered what’s left of the battalion bug out. The injured were loaded into the carts with care. Any soldiers that could ride were put on horses while those who could march were on foot, even Ansgar. Within another hour’s time, they regretfully left Falkreath. Rena only hoped another battalion would reach them in time.

* * *

Skathi saw the things that happened to Whiterun Hold. The fields of Rorikstead wreathed in flames and the dead. Soldiers clad in Imperial steel, Stormcloak mail and the local scales crushed the grass beneath their fallen bodies never to rise again. What few guards still stood were on the porch of Frostfruit Inn, keeping anyone from the villagers inside. War came to this place and it left everyone its victim.

And then she saw the far less bloodstained Riverwood. Stormcloak soldiers patrolled the streets. While no blood stained the cobblestone or wood, it was still as quiet as winter in the woods. No chatting or conversation that could reach five feet, perhaps as not to draw the guards’ attention. It felt strange, as if she entered a wake.

“Stop,” one of the blue-clad guards ordered the outsider, “State your business.”

“I am the Dragonborn,” Skathi stated.

The guard took a step back. “My apologies, Dragonborn,” he redacted, “I did not mean to pry.”

A lie. The only reason she could evade his questioning was because the populous held the her with some regard. She was the one who slayed a dragon in Whiterun’s shadow. She fought the beast, not the Legion or Stormcloaks, though both would value her. Perhaps too much. She did not deserve this attention. At least, that is what she believed.

The outsider dismounted her stead and went to the Sleeping Giant Inn. This is where she would find her quarry, even if Lydia was tight lipped about it. The seats were stuffed to the brim with so solders, it was as if entering a shack to find a barracks. They were eating and drinking, though some spat out the homebrew in favor of the “better mead.” The waitress sniffed the unfinished drink and went to the man at the bar.

“Orgnar,” she called over the crowd to no answer, “Orgnar! Are you listening?"

“Hard not to,” the man snarked back over maintaining his customers’ demands.

“The ale's going bad we need to get a new batch,” the waitress explained. No reply. “Did you hear me?" she bitterly asked.

“Yep. Ale's going bad,” he nodded.

“I guess you don't have potatoes in your ears after all,” the waitress muttered, “Just make sure we get a new batch in soon.”

Skathi decide it was best to ask the waitress, as the barkeep was busy between cooking and drinks. The woman seemed older, like she had full grown children out there that might be trying to have their own. Despite that, she seemed as lean as a veteran captain in the field. All this distracted from the fact she was most likely a Breton with her height being that of a Nord teen.

“Excuse me?” Skathi spoke up, “I'd like to rent the attic room.”

The older woman’s eyebrow went up, confused like she just heard someone’s prat. “Attic room, eh?” she remarked, “Well, we don't have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left. Make yourself at home.”

While Skathi entered the room, Lydia did not follow. The room seemed normal enough, nothing out of the ordinary as far as she could tell. Was this part of something? She could barely remember what she was here for, as the vampire business was taxing.

“So, you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about,” the waitress remarked, “I think you're looking for this.”

In her hand was a horn, strange and unique. It looked scaled like a fish, or the tip of a dragon’s tail had been cut off and hollowed out. It was ancient, a faint strand of cobwebs inside. It could only be the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, so this waitress could only be the thief.

“We need to talk,” the thief stated, “Follow me”

She threw open the wardrobe and revealed a secret passageway downward. The sheer logistics required to build this without anyone knowing was bizarre, so Skathi had to assume it was built decades before the waitress used it. Without questions as to the thief’s motives, the outsider followed her down.

The staircase led to a secret room with the atmosphere of a vampire’s resting place. It had the had weapon racks and shelves, almost a hiding place of the next politic insurgent. What sort of interests had this woman have and did they need a blade to the back?

“The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn,” the thief remarked, “I hope they're right.”

“So, you're the one who took the horn?” Skathi asked.

“Surprised? I guess I'm getting pretty good at my harmless innkeeper act,” she chuckled, “I’m Delphine, by the way.”

“What's with all the cloak and dagger?” Skathi asked.

“You can't be too careful,” Delphine replied, “Thalmor spies are everywhere.”

“You'd better start explaining,” Skathi threaten, hand on her hilt, “Fast.” She wanted to know everything.

“I'll explain what I want when I want, got it?” Delphine barked, “You'd already be dead if I didn't like the look of you when you walked in here. But I had to know if the rumors about you were true."

“I'm part of a group that's been looking for you,” She continued “well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you anymore, I need to make sure I can trust you.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Skathi retorted. She found no reason to.

“If you don't trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place,” Delphine replied.

A moronic response, given she had no apparent allies to call upon if Skathi drew swords against her. “Why are you looking for a Dragonborn?” the outsider asked.

“We remember what most don't,” Delphine explained, “that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon slayer. You're the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul. Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon's soul?"

“I absorb some kind of power from dragons,” Skathi admitted, “That's all I can say.”

“This is no time to play the reluctant hero,” Delphine stated, not knowing a thing about Skathi in the slightest, “You either are or aren't Dragonborn. But I'll see for myself soon enough."

Skathi began to get suspicious. “So, what's the part you're not telling me?” she asked.

"Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life,” Delphine explained, “They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it.”

“Do you know how crazy this sounds?” Skathi asked. To be fair, the dragons were coming back, which was mad in and of itself.

“Ha. A few years ago, I said almost the same thing to a colleague of mine,” Delphine chuckled, though her face was soon dressed in regret, “Well, it turned out he was right, and I was wrong."

Skathi had to be sure about this woman’s work. “What makes you think dragons are coming back to life?” she asked.

"I know they are. I've visited their ancient burial mounds and found them empty,” Delphine explained, “And I've figured out where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know.”

Skathi sighed. “So, where are we headed?”

“Kynesgrove,” Delphine stated, “There's an ancient dragon burial near there. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it."

The outsider did not want to go. All this travelling was already exhausting, let alone all the violence along with it. She was ready to rest, but the powers granted to her by the Divines demanded her responsible for this task. She had to, but the last time she fought a dragon, she was nearly frightened to death and her only friend almost died. She wanted out of her destiny, but that would not happen yet.

“Let's go kill a dragon,” Skathi half-heartedly remarked. Yet another painful adventure ahead.

* * *

When Jeanne returned to Whiterun, the great stink was fervent. Of all the smells that could be in the air, this was powerfully overcoming everything else to the point that you couldn’t smell lavender if it was shoved in your nose. Jeanne was unfamiliar with it but had a feeling what it was. That feeling turned out to be right when she passed the fields.

The fields of Whiterun were littered with corpses. They had not been slain there, but instead were being brought to be buried or burned. Priests of Arkay looked over the dead, took what was not uniform for Legionnaires or guards or Stormcloaks to carry and set them aside. They prepared the dead to be buried in a mass grave or burned.

Despite this, many corpses remained unburied or burned. Specifically, Stormcloaks. The Stormcloak warband struck with ten thousand soldiers and lost around a fifth of that. Untrained, most were, relying on their trials instead of experience to carry them. They fought for the glory of Sovngarde and had met it. She wasn’t sure what that was, but she would learn. Odd that they weren’t further in on burying them, as the Whiterun and Legion dead were by far the larger task.

Jeanne arrived in the city to find the Stormcloaks patrolling the streets. She thought through things and that, in order to replace the Whiterun regulars and factoring in the losses, they had seven thousand to continue the war. That wasn’t that much compared to the Legion’s numbers, but the fact they attacked as one was their advantage. They were on the offensive; they had no need to conserve their numbers, but she was concerned that they would run out.

She spotted Galmar talking to someone. Jeanne didn’t know who it was but was certain he was important, so waited for him to leave before giving her report to her commander.

“That was the new captain of the guard, Sinmir,” Galmar explained, “If you need anything in the way of law and order, go to him. Now, what happened at Rorikstead?”

Jeanne explained what happened in every detail she could parse. Her soldiers added things she forgot or missed. Galmar was disappointed that Runleif died, but more of why he had to die. He knew some of his men didn’t live up to the standards he or Ulfric wanted them to, but he wasn’t sure how to keep them from being the way they were. Discipline would be needed somehow.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jeanne stated, “what’s the deal with the Companions?”

Galmar looked like he’d been asked to describe his favorite and most hated subject. “The Companions carry the name of Ysgramor’s five hundred warriors that he brought from Atmora to wreak revenge for the Snow Elves’ betrayal,” he explained, “Had it not been for them, Man would not earn their place in Tamriel.” His look of pride at his forefathers turned to disappointment. “Now, they are nothing more than mercenaries.”

Jeanne knew something of the Five Hundred Companions. After massacring the ancient city of Saarthal, the Snow Elves had made an enemy of the Men who settled there to escape trouble in their homeland. Ysgramor, one of the few survivors, went back to Atmora and brought back five hundred warriors to for revenge. They were well known for this, and the Snow Elves were forced to become servants of the Dwemer. Elves don’t like Ysgramor and Jeanne had to admit his history was far too bloody than it had to be, but what’s done is done; what’s next?

“I guess you can’t blame the Companions for becoming sellswords,” the adopted Nord remarked.

“True,” Galmar sighed, “We all need to eat, but it just feels disappointing. The Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor left a legacy for all mankind. The nine sellswords who inherited that name will leave coin purses slightly lighter. The fact they act like little has changed, like they’re still as honored as Jeek of the River, Meksim the Walker and Vust the Smiler, that leave much to be desired.”

Jeanne supposed as much. In High Rock, many houses still claimed they were great honor despite the fact they’d spend their tax money on pleasures of the flesh, they hadn’t accomplished anything of note in generations and cared for their children like they grew out of the ground. They were jokes in court, even when they attended. If the Companions didn’t live up to the legacy they had been granted, nor create any impression of note, they nothing pretending to be something. A familiar tale but sad when they did come from something.

After that train of thought, Jeanne decided to change the subject. “What’s with the bodies?” she inquired, a slightly grimmer topic than legacies becoming a joke.

“Well, we underestimated how many requested to be buried in Falkreath,” Galmar explained, “Considering most of them were young men that threw their lives away like fools, I’m not sure they’ve earned it.”

“Are we attacking there next?” Jeanne asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “If we can cripple their ability to deploy Legion forces into Skyrim, we’ll have a far easier war. I suppose we can get a few distinguish warriors in the Graveyard, but not the lot of them.”

“Then what’s with the fields of corpses?” Jeanne asked.

Galmar sighed. “We’re waiting word from their families for permission to either send their bodies home or bury them here,” he replied.

What made the Falkreath Graveyard special escaped Jeanne, but she knew not all of them deserved to be buried there. If it was the Nord dream to die in battle, rest in Sovngarde and be buried in Falkreath, many would wish it without having earned it. It’s a common story to want what you have not or cannot earn.

“So,” Jeanne inquired, “how are we going to claim Falkreath?”

Galmar seemed far more excited to talk about that than fallen honor or soldiers. “Ulfric always knew we would have the numbers to take Falkreath, but they’re far too used to invaders for numbers to matter to them,” he explained, “But if we strike quick and quietly, we’ll have a far easier time taking the hold. We took Whiterun with ten thousand. We plan on taking Falkreath with two hundred.”

That sounded fantastic. Then Jeanne found out they would be fighting eleven times that many soldiers. Thank the Divines Falkreath had a graveyard.


	10. Chapter 10

Overlooking Falkreath, Jeanne knew it was possible to take it. The city wasn’t one of the larger walled ones like Windhelm or Whiterun, so it could be done. From the size, the hold guard was smaller than some others, at six hundred strong. But that wouldn’t be an easy battle for the two hundred that stayed on the outskirts, prepared for battle.

Falkreath was important for the Legion war effort, so they prepared to meet the Stormcloak warband in open war. With Legionnaires backing the hold guard, there was ten times as many soldiers prepared to defend as those who prepared to attack.  
But in the size of their forces, there was a weakness. The twenty-two hundred hold guards and Legionnaires couldn’t all fit in the city. As such, they were out on the road, camped out to meet the warband in battle. A smaller force could sneak across Falkreath’s boarders, sail Lake Ilinalta and strike the city in the night.

Even with the distinct advantage, they would need to strike deliberately and fast. They would need a commander and strategy to understand this and the terrain. Thank the Divines their field commander was Thorygg Sun-Killer, a local boy who knew the streets like the back of his hand. His insight allowed them to formulate their strategy.

With all of this in mind, Jeanne and the Stormcloaks hid in the woods, awaiting the signal to attack. There was no turning back now that they had gotten this far. To turn back now was foolish and cowardice. Everyone here knew that. So, it was no surprise when Thorygg raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. That was the signal.

And the battle began.

The Stormcloaks knew stealth had been on their side to get them this far, but this was no time to sneak. This was the time for speed, so they bolted across the shallow river toward the city, weapons and shields drawn. A guard spotted them, but as he yelled, “Stormcloaks!” an arrow landed in his throat. Would’ve happened whether they snuck in or not, so why bother?

Jeanne knew her objective as the leader of the second company. She led her soldiers off from Thorygg’s men and ran to the barracks. They didn’t know how many soldiers were garrisoned here at this time, so covering it was going to be necessary. Hopefully, not many.

The company reached the barracks just in time for the door to open and a few dozen soldiers start filing out. They met Stormcloak shields as they were bashed into the barracks walls. To make sure they didn’t have any more soldiers, the door was jammed with a war axe lodged into the ground and the handle holding it in place. They would need a hammer to break it down.

From there, the plan was simple. Jeanne led her soldiers to the jarl’s longhouse, Thorygg’s objective. The plan was to deal with both the hold guards and the Jarl simultaneously, but if one objective was reached before the other, the company was to meet up with the other. They were intended to be fulfilled at the same time, resulting in a complete surrender of the hold. Doing one but not the other meant it was taking longer than expected and needed aid.

Arriving at the longhouse, the remaining hold guard and Stormcloaks met an unexpected hiccup. An entire Legion company was pouring out of the longhouse. The coward, Jarl Siddgeir, must have had them hid in fear the warband destroyed the barricades. He was right, but it wouldn’t save him.

Jeanne’s company burst into Siddgeir’s lines, aiming to blitz into the longhouse. This was not as simple as it seemed, as the Legionnaires stood strong against them. They tried to break through the lines, but the clunky men in steel armor were difficult to move. Jeanne decided this wouldn’t do.

The adopted Nord cast fire to burn her way through the lines. The hardened Legion regulars were unphased by the inferno, but not wisely. Jeanne aimed a stream of fire under their feet and the heat was intended to cook them. Their resolve was fast to fall. Her company broke through and bolted into the longhouse.

The Jarl was at his dais, about twenty men between him and his enemies. There wasn’t a moment where he declared he would fight alongside his men for his people and country or anything like that. He didn’t seem able to fight anyway, lacking armor or a sword longer than his thigh. How the people thought he was a good Jarl was not immediately evident, but perhaps the Empire was just as guilty of using puppet Jarls that weren’t elected as much as Ulfric. Didn’t make either better, just the same level of guilty.

No matter, Jeanne would end this quickly. She threw a bolt of fire at the guards’ feet, frightening them and giving her the opportunity that she needed. She bolted across the firepit in the center of the house, her leather soles protecting her feet from burns. Her sword in hand, she stabbed at the Jarl’s head, but missed.

A small sting was felt in Jeanne’s gut. She looked down and saw a crossbow bolt there. Jarl Siddgeir’s, as she saw him wielding such a weapon in his shaking hands.

“I’ve had worse, you willowy prick,” she growled.

Jeanne wrestled the crossbow out of his hands and grappled him in her arms. “Alright, alright!” he cried, “Don’t kill me! I accept defeat!”

Jarl Siddgeir was released and fell off the dais. “Good,” Jeanne stated, “Now, run along to your mother, whelp.”

Him and his staff left the longhouse, his surviving guards following him out. Now that the battle was over, a healer came over and mended Jeanne’s wound. That was a fast battle, around a half hour. She hoped they would be just as long.

When the adopted Nord exited the longhouse, the streets were littered with Legion corpses. Thorygg looked visibly shaken. He just had to invade his hometown; Jeanne wouldn’t expect him to be happy.

“I knew this place,” he remarked with a longing look around, “The general goods store clerks were nice people, always gave me sweets for helping them bring in the latest shipment. The smithy always shooed me away from all the pointy things. The innkeepers always let me watch the new people come in. I missed this place.”

Jeanne wasn’t acquainted with those feelings, of returning home the bad guy. All she knew was that the Legion was likely to strike back with the knowledge of what happened here. She summoned her soldiers together and told them to prepare for over a thousand strong coming their way.

They never came.

* * *

The Whiterun survivors had reached Solitude in the night and collapse in their beds from the travel. They awoke to their new orders, all of them. Most were honorably discharged due to injury, few staying on for the rest of the war. They deserved it. They already lost limb and friends for the Legion; they deserved to rest after this.

In the morning, Rena and Ansgar were summoned to meet with General Tullius. As the only ranking officers to survive, he would want a report from them. The strange thing is that protocol only dictated they write one, not give one orally. Rena thought there was something more to this meeting than a report and he had something else he wanted to talk about. Hopefully not promoting Ansgar.

Entering the war room, Rena could tell Tullius was stressed. His face was hard as stone and his eyes were cold embers of fire. Why wouldn’t he be? The events of these past two weeks have led to war. From failing to hold Ulfric, dragon attacks and now open war, this surely wasn’t like any position he held before. Rena half expected him to pick up drinking.

Tullius put his hand on the table, on a small pile of letters. They looked like official reports. “Captains,” he spoke in a harder voice than normal, “Give your report of the Battle for Whiterun.”

Ansgar was first. “The Stormcloaks attacked in late afternoon. They broke through the first two lines of defenses within an hour. When they reached the gate, we attempted to ambush them by attacking them from the north road through town. I reminded them of their duty to the Empire, even over Skyrim, and the Nord soldiers turned. The third layer of defense was broken immediately, and we tried to lose them in the residential area. When the Stormcloaks breached the keep, I ordered a full retreat. Our total Casualties were 1,409, total injured were 119.”

He continued, “I request the Legionnaires that left their post at the keep be punished.”

Tullius looked as though he was lied to. “Captain Donton,” he asked, “what’s your report of the battle?”

Rena could only tell the truth as she saw. “The Stormcloaks attacked without strategy or any real form. Every soldier fought for their own glory. How they broke through the first two line of defenses speaks to their individual talent.”

She continued, “Our battalion was going to take advantage of their disunity by applying our forces from two directions two and corner them. Tribune Barsotti tried to rally the Nords, told them to ‘give them the glory of Sovngarde’. A cultural thing, I suppose.”  
Legate Rikke took great attention to that. Rena noticed she was a Nord herself. Perhaps she thought that was a good idea, even if she knew it was for naught.

Rena continued, “Ansgar also gave them a rallying cry. Something along the lines of ‘They may fight for Skyrim, but we fight for all of Tamriel.’ The moment the Stormcloaks broke through, half the battalion turned on the other. Tribune Barsotti was killed.”

She looked down in shame. “I attempted to avenge her. The ambush had already failed; I just wanted to make that soldier pay. I failed.” She sighed, “I was corned and thrown in the gutter to die. That’s all I can say of the battle.”

She remembered something and added, “And there was a Khajiit called Mariqa that started beating up Stormcloaks. He’s weird.”

Tullius looked at the letters. “You know what these are?” he asked, “These are reports I’ve asked from the twenty of the survivors.”

Ansgar looked ashamed. Rena figured it was because he knew they would hold something against him for causing half the battalion to revolt. With longer to think about it, it lacked tact. He probably knew this, and he had to be reminded to never do it again.

“Ansgar, you most likely caused the Nords’ to turn against us,” Tullius remarked, “Asking the soldiers that fled Dragonsreach be punished doesn’t sound good from your mouth.” He continued, “And you, Captain Donton, left your post for your own glory. Neither of you are prime leadership material.”

He looked to one, then the other, looking back a fourth as he spoke. “I considered making one of you tribune, but I won’t give it to the likes of you.” He looked honestly disappointed in them, as he should. “You’re to await further orders in the next three days.”

Rena and Ansgar nodded and left. Back at the barracks, there were things unspoken. Ansgar was angrily doing whatever he did. Rena didn’t ask what it was about, but assumed it had something to do with how that meeting left. Tullius knew he had something to do with the ambush’s failure and he was held back because of it. It was probably that.

At the barracks dinner, it was almost silent. An air of depression was apparent in the mess hall. The Whiterun survivors were crushed by the failure and wounds of the battle and the hold guards were sympathetic. The only sounds that could be heard was the clanking of dishes and utensils. It was almost unbearable.

And suddenly, Mariqa jumped on top of the table, shirtless. “Who here knows the story of Dagrun Blood-Maiden?” he asked with a chipper voice.

Most of the mess hall shrugged, while Ansgar had his head in his hands for some reason. “Well, do you wanna hear it?” he asked.

Again, barely any enthusiasm could be mustered. “Well, you’re about to hear it!” he proclaimed, pulling a lute from his seat.

“Tsun’s balls,” Ansgar muttered.

“Blood and steel, fur and bone, Dagrun fought to save her home

“Kyne’s grove, the holy place, was where the enemy that she did face  
“Came to murder and to kill, and sought for innocent blood to spill  
“J’Dahros of the black mane drew- a bow, and from it arrows flew  
“Dagrun had saved her home before, and so led the guards through the gore  
“Brigands and thieves, cutthroats and fiends, filled the battle to the seams  
“Dagrun the Loudmouthed spoke a taunt, and her skill she did then flaunt  
“Axe of Nordic make she drew, and with fought through the slew  
“Behind shield of courage and of might, she made it through all the night  
“The moon set, and the sun did rise, and the bandits dropped all like flies  
“J’Dahros would not yield, and so drew the bow that he did wield  
“Fired once he did, and all the guards they had hid  
“But Dagrun charged the mighty cat, though found no fruit doing that  
“Up a tree the bandit climbed, and fired arrows whose targets they’d find  
“Dagrun knelt and drew her bow, aiming now the killing blow  
“One she fired and it struck, their arrows clashing out of luck  
“A mark on her ear did Dagrun get, but in their contest she’d won her bet  
“J’Dahros fell from the tree, and the guard shouted out in glee  
Mead, ale, and wine they drank to toast the brave, and Dagrun toasted the town she saved”

The mess hall erupted in cheer as he sang. A good song, Rena supposed, brought levity to even the emptiest crypt. The soldiers that knew the lyrics joined the song, even though they were hardly good singers. Much mead was spent, and a fine night was had by all, in and out of the of the hall. Even Ansgar enjoyed himself with an arm-wrestling competition, though he wasn’t a fan of the song.

Rena almost wanted the night to never end. Better than the war, anyways.

* * *

Jeanne awaited Galmar’s arrival to Falkreath. She did not sleep yet, as she thought the Legion, or the rest of the hold guard would come to reclaim it for Siddgeir. No, it wasn’t doing good things to her mind. At some point before the dawn, she lost time and discovered Galmar stood over her, poking her awake in the middle of the day. Perhaps her bravado was less than wise.

“Hawksly, get up,” the Stormcloak commander ordered.

Jeanne got up, embarrassed. “Now,” Galmar stated, “we have something to discuss.”

The officers entered the Jarl’s longhouse and saw the man on the dais was old with a beard like long winter. To her knowledge, this was Dengeir of Stuhn, the Jarl before Siddgeir. The two were uncle and nephew, and you’ll not hear the end of it if you deliberately mix up who is who. The public reason for Dengeir stepping down was declining health, but most believe it was because the Empire replaced him with someone more compliant. Considering Jeanne’s only interaction with him was him claiming the general goods clerk was a Legion spy that killed the previous owners even though he’s a Stormcloak veteran, claiming he’d be an invaluable warrior on the frontlines, and insulting her for pretty much anything immediately apparent about her, she doesn’t think that was the only reason he was replaced.

Galmar and the other officers met in the war room off to the side. Thorygg, just as tired as Jeanne, was propped up like a training dummy. He looked like he was crying though. The rest of the officers were all Nords, quite unlike Jeanne herself. It was a reminder that everyone was at least taller than her, not specifically that she was wrong for being here. She accomplished far more than these few, cornering two Jarls in their keeps. There was no conflict between them that she could see.

“I think we should begin with the obvious,” one officer, Mirafing, stated.

“Right,” Galmar replied, “To those of you who aren’t aware, we were expecting around two thousand hold guards and Legionnaires in our path to Falkreath. When we expected to meet them, they just weren’t there.”

“How do you miss two thousand men?” a familiar officer, Harling, asked in disbelief.

“We don’t know,” Galmar admitted, “When sent to check free prisoners from Fort Neugrad, we ransacked it for any information. We couldn’t find anything. We’re expecting scouts any minute now that should confirm or deny they retreated.”

“How could they retreat without anyone noticing?” Thorygg asked, “The roads are laid out so that anyone, tired or not, would make it very obvious when two thousand soldiers march by the city.”

“We didn’t notice anything,” Jeanne added, “If they didn’t have anything at Fort Neugard, and we didn’t notice them on the road, I’m not sure what to say.”

One officer, Heimrand, wasn’t satisfied with that. “You’d have to be terrible soldier to not notice two thousand soldiers march right past you,” he remarked, “don’t you think?”

Jeanne could feel some sort of condescension from him. She understood that some Nords weren’t thrilled with a short Breton rising through the ranks so fast. She understood she’d face some prejudice from her fellow Stormcloaks. The fact he wanted her to be the reason they lost the Empire’s men was unprofessional at best.

“Yes,” Jeanne replied with snark, “two hundred soldiers who just took a hold capital didn’t notice two thousand soldiers. Thanks for the review!”

Heimrand seemed a little defensive. “Well, all it takes is one officer telling them not to check for it to go unnoticed,” he grumbled.

The Breton gave him a stare of resigned disbelief. “Do you want to insult me and my shield brother with your backhand again,” she inquired, “or do you want to use a clenched fist? You know, like a real warrior?”

That almost sent him across the table with his axe drawn, but Galmar held him back. In brief hindsight, it wasn’t wise to mock a fellow warrior. However, all Stormcloaks are shield-siblings in the end, as they may need to bear arms together. If one would lower their shield to let her die, then comradery wasn’t possible.

“Heimrand, stand down,” Galmar ordered, “Hawksly, don’t antagonize him.”

“Excuse me,” a voice from the doorway spoke up, “I’m here to report the Legion situation.”

They turned around and saw a Stormcloak with dusty armor from the road and a tired look on her face. She was surely one of the scouts.

“Well then, shield-sister,” Galmar replied, “give us your report.”

He took the message and looked over. His expression melted from incredulous to confused. He set the message on the table and caught himself.

“According to this report,” the commander explained, “the regiment and hold guard never left Falkreath hold; they’re just missing.”

This unsettled the entire room. How had two thousand soldiers just disappeared? You can’t just hide that many thinking, feeling, eating people. Two hundred, you could; that was proven, but not thousands. The Thalmor were easy scapegoats, but far too easy for it to be true. The thought it could happen again niggled at the back of Jeanne’s mind.

Nervously, Heimrand spoke up. “We still have the Reach to discuss.”

“Yes,” Harling replied a bit too quickly, “let’s talk about that.”

Ah, the Reach. To Jeanne’s knowledge, it was a strange place. The terrain was mountainous terrain with little space to move an army but was swarmed by native barbarians that called the place home. A people calling themselves the Reachmen, descended from an extinct race of Men, Cyrodiilic, Orc and, claims had it, Daedra. Despite that lineage, they looked a lot like Bretons, though her own kin denied any relation to them.

“I think we ought to send an advanced force to secure Markarth,” Mirafing suggested, “and deploy the rest of the warband when we have the strength to take the Reach.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Heimrand retorted, “Markarth was only ever taken by Tiber Septim and I doubt you’re the next Tiber Septim.”

“And Ulfric,” Galmar interjected, “While I didn’t accompany him the first time, I know he found a way into the city.” He looked straight into Heimrand’s eyes, “Besides, what’s your plan?”

Heimrand didn’t back down. “Blockade the roads, starve them out.”

“That would kill civilians before it killed the Legion,” a younger officer barked at his elder.

Galmar turned to look at this warrior. “What’s your name?”

He was overcoming with what seemed youthful awkwardness. “My name is Kottir Red-Shoal.”

Galmar put a hand on Kottir. To Jeanne, it looked like a father about to teach his son a lesson. “I think I’ll put you in command of the advance force,” he stated.

Kottir’s face was full of joyful surprise, while the other officers were overcome with murmuring confusion. Jeanne had only become in officer within the week, but she thought this was most irregular. This warrior looked only recently bloodied, despite looking at least thirty summers old. He wasn’t well known, but he still had the officer’s uniform, and they don’t give those out for nothing. Maybe her and the other officers were making something out of nothing.

After another few topics hardly worth noting, the meeting was out. Jeanne, tired as ever, began to saunter over to the Dead Man’s Drink to rent a room and rest.

* * *

Skathi rode strong for miles to Kynesgrove. Despite her reservations about fighting another dragon, she knew it had to be done. The ride took the rest of the day, interrupted by the odd bandit or a random priest from an obscure religious sect. Both were given a boot to the face or sword to the chest, if need be. She would rather not be out here more than she needed to.

She was wondering how she was so able to kill more now. Then she realized she was not thinking about it. The minute she asked why she was so reserved, it weighed on her greater than her Dragonborn responsibilities ever did. What right did she have to kill them? They might have gone on to do better ambitions, but all that was gone.

These thoughts were interrupted by a wolf or a bandit, but they always came back with vengeance. She never had these thoughts before Helgen, when she was in the wilderness. But did she? Something seemed familiar, like she had been burdened by guilt for something she had done, but she lacked any memory of what. She was blocking something out, she knew that, but not what.

But did she really? Would she risk whatever secret she kept hidden from herself to cripple her again and tear her mind apart a second time? Perhaps. To have one’s one mind conspire against itself is a thing no one would want. If only to learn the truth.

Skathi’s ponderings and self-loathing were interrupted by the sight of Delphine outside of Kynesgrove. She had gotten ahead of her, despite needing to dress herself in armor. Confusing, but not impossible, given all the other madness that had plague her the past week.

The town of Kynesgrove itself was smaller than any town she had ever seen. One building she could classify as such, followed by what could accurately be called a camp site. They surely had little money to their name if they had nothing to their name but this. Even Ivarstead, a backwater with nothing but an inn and mill, was better off than this.

Before Delphine could get a word in, a woman ran to the two in a panic. “No, you don't want to go up there!” she warned “A dragon, it's attacking!”

Skathi’s eyes hardened. “Where's this dragon?” she asked.

“It flew over the town and landed on the old dragon burial mound,” the woman explained, “I don't know what it's doing, but I'm not waiting around to find out.”

The outsider dismounted as the woman ran off. Her and Delphine ran up the hill to meet the dragon in battle. There, Skathi took one long look at the Beast before her. It was almost impossible to see in the night sky, but it was there. It was the spot that hid the stars in the sky. Inside held ebony spikes and eyes like embers. It was surely the Beast of Helgen.

It hovered there, menacing over a mossy stone cap in the ground. This was surely the burial mound. Before a blade could be raised again it, the dragon Shouted upon the grave. Energies rose around the stone, writhing and ribboning. And then, the stone broke apart, shattering in every direction.

Out from the mound rose a dragon’s skeleton, moving as though alive. It crawled out and bowed before the Beast, presenting like a farmer to his jarl. Scales began burning around it, as though it were forged on its bones again. Before a moment passed, this skeletal creature became a full monster again.

This reborn dragon began a conversation with its black overlord. Skathi recognized the words as Dragon Language, but not what they meant. The feeling of subservience to the great Beast radiated from this other dragon, but that was a guess. Before she reached for her bow, the Beast turn its head and looked right at her.

“You do not even know our tongue, do you?” it boomed in unholy voice of Coldharbour, “Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

He then spoke an unintelligible command to the other dragon and left. The remaining beast turned to Skathi and Delphine and Shouted a gush of fire out at them. The Breton took cover, but the outsider stayed to absorb the inferno. It left her armor damaged again, but she was still clothed, and her blades were undamaged.

Skathi charged at the beast, sword and dagger in hand, and gave a blow against its jaw, the beast barely reeling. It opened its maw and moved to bite her head. She dodged the bite and lunged at its jaw a second time. Its scales were scratched, but not broken. Skathi was running out of options.

**“Fus Ro!”**

She Shouted as the dragon tried to bite again. This shook its concentration and gave Skathi an opportunity. She took out her singed bow and nocked a black arrow. She loosed it straight into its exposed underbelly, the beast bellowing in pain. It was still alive and tried to set her ablaze again. With less faith she would be unburnt, Skathi bolted out of the way. Without missing a beat, she sent a black arrow straight into its head.

The dragon fell, dead. Like before, fire wreathed its body, but the more familiar burning of it scales than repair. The ribbons of energy writhed out and met Skathi to give ancient knowledge once again. She found it funny this was easier to learn than her own memories. Once it faded, Delphine stood, shocked.

“So, you really are- I-, “the shorter woman stuttered, “it's true, isn't it? You really are Dragonborn.” She collected herself and started again. “I owe you some answers, don't I?” she remarked, “Go ahead. Whatever you want to know. Nothing held back.”  
Finally, some answers. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” Skathi asked.

“I'm one of the last members of the Blades.” Delphine explained, “A very long time ago, the Blades were dragon slayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragon slayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them.”

“The Blades? Who are they?” Skathi asked.

“Exactly,” Delphine replied, “Nobody even remembers our name these days. We used to be known across Tamriel as the protectors of the Septim Emperors. Those days are long gone, though. For the last two hundred years, we've been searching for the next Dragonborn to guide and guard, as we are sworn to do. But we never found one. Until now.”

Great, more Dragonborn worshippers. “What's our next move?” Skathi sighed.

“The first thing we need to do is figure out who's behind the dragons,” the Blade stated, “The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is.”

“What makes you think the Thalmor are bringing dragons back?” Skathi inquired. It seemed a weird to blame it on mortals.

“Nothing solid. Yet,” Delphine answered, “But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else. The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened. Who else gains from that but the Thalmor?”

“So, we need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons,” Skathi clarified, “Any ideas?”

“If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy,” Delphine explained, “it's the center of their operations in Skyrim. Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia." Silence only made that statement sink in as Skathi realized how crazy the Breton was.

“So how do we get into the Thalmor Embassy?” Skathi sighed.

“I'm not sure yet,” Delphine admitted, “I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together.” She continued, “Meet me back in Riverwood. If I'm not back when you get there, wait for me. I shouldn't be long. Keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse.”

Skathi was tired. From the dragon slaying on one end and spy craft on the other, she was starting to wonder when she would be released from this service to the realm. Before anything else happened, she was going to get what sleep she could at the inn and be done with the day. She hoped they had good apple pie.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Rena awoke with no intention of getting out of bed. Even if this wasn’t a good bed, it was far better to her strained muscles than standing up. She’d read The Lusty Argonian Maid if it wasn’t banned from the barracks. She was worn from travel and war. She just wanted to catch up from all the excitement.

However, you don’t get to rest in the Legion. She didn’t see who, but someone in armor pulled on her sheet and flipped her onto the stone floor. No sleeping in in the Legion. She sighed and donned her armor for duty. Ansgar was at the door, waiting for his comrade, probably the one that woke her up.

“Come on,” he ordered, “Tullius wants us.”

The two officers climbed the stairs to the general’s war room, passing some disheveled vagrant on the way. When they arrived, there were two officers with Tullius. One was Legate Rikke, his chief lieutenant. The other was an unfamiliar Imperial with the blade of a Tribune. On the table was some sort of spiked helm. Tullius seemed to favor the helm.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, looking at his young officers.

Rena looked over it. “Some sort of special Nord helm?” she inquired.

“This is the Jagged Crown,” he grinned, “a Nord artifact. If Ulfric were to get this, he would use it as a sign he had the right to rule. But it’s ours now.”

Ansgar took one look at it and said, “If you’re not going to use it, I’m gonna take it.”

Tullius picked it up. “It’s going to under lock and key for now until Jarl Elisif’s crowning,” he explained.

Jarl Elisif was High King Torygg’s widow. She was young, inexperienced in statecraft, leaving everything to her steward. The Empire supported her claim to the throne, seeing as there was no heir apparent and Ulfric’s claim was considered illegitimate. And yet, Tullius was sent here as military governor. Rena got the impression there was some puppetry going on.

The Imperial officer approached her and Ansgar. “I’m Tribune Solana Barsotti,” she stated, “I’m your new commanding officer.”

“Hm,” Ansgar remarked, “I’m not sure this one would be good for a cavalry company.” Referring, of course, to Rena.

Barsotti looked a little confused. “I’m not a cavalry commander,” she explained, “You’re being transferred to an infantry battalion under Legate Quentin Cipius. Don’t worry, you’re getting reinforcements.” She turned to Rena. “You are getting a promotion.”

The tribune picked up a captain’s sword from the table and handed to Rena. She knew this was coming, Tullius said as much, but it just wasn’t something she was used to. One-hundred people now counted on her as a leader, to know what’s best for them and lead them to victory. If she failed them, for any reason, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself.

“General Tullius will explain the rest,” Barsotti explained.

Ansgar and Rena were led out into the lobby and officer started to join. Rena counted and there were as many officers there as there were in a regiment. About sixty or so. General Tullius, having put away the Jagged Crown, stood up on a bench to get the officers’ attention.

“Soldiers!” he exclaimed, “Open war is upon us. We’ve received word that Ulfric Stormcloak is preparing to invade Whiterun if Jarl Balgruuf doesn’t side with him. If Whiterun hold is taken, Ulfric will have the roads. We must stand in his way.”

Whiterun Hold was incredibly valuable for the war effort. The roads would cut out a lot of the travel time to maintain the rest of the holds. Tundra cotton, an essential ingredient in potions of magic resistance, was only found there. And it was the ninth hold of the province giving a distinct advantage to whoever they sided with.

He continued, “Once we have permission from the Jarl, you’ll be deployed to Whiterun to defend the city from the rebel forces. Prepare for the long haul.” He sighed. “I know many of you have mixed feelings about fighting your fellow Nords. Some of you may be fighting friends and family. I have nothing to justify this. We are on different sides of this war, but we didn’t start this. We will end this war. Pray to the Eight Divines your loved ones survive.”

The lobby was dead quiet. It quickly became as grim as a wake. Many of the Nord officer barely talked. The Imperials tried showing them respect, but their local counterparts were unreceptive. They were just reminded that they were fighting their brothers and sisters in this war. They didn’t want this. Rena knew they just wanted to serve the Empire, but it was getting harder. If the Legion was sent to put down her home county’s rebellion, it would have the same effect on her.

Ansgar barely paid attention to this. He was asking Barsotti if he could keep some of his riders, which was allowed. Rena got the impression he’d be unpopular with the Nord soldiers. He was unpopular with her, but that was a mutual understanding.

However, Rena wanted to check something out. Who was the vagrant that gave them the Jagged Crown? It couldn’t have just been a random sellsword or traveler. The Stormcloaks would keep this as close a secret as possible until it was in Ulfric’s hands. Someone knew its importance. Someone knew Ulfric was after it. Someone knew what to do with the Crown.

Rena checked around. The castle blacksmith mentioned someone of her description getting an order for Imperial armor and leaving the castle grounds. She asked a shifty looking squatter if he saw anything and he said no, but a passing beggar said he saw the vagrant heading to the Winking Skeever, the best and only inn in Solitude. The innkeeper, eager not to gain the ire of a Legionnaire, said the vagrant took a room upstairs.

Upstairs, she found the right door and knock. An underdressed Dunmer poked her head out, mumbled something about poor life decisions and put her head back in. Maybe she should’ve come back at a better time.

* * *

Skathi reached the town of Ivarstead last night. She had been traveling since midday and found herself quite worn from that. She stayed at the Vilemyr Inn, as it was the only inn in the town. It was a small town, all things considered, even smaller than Riverwood. It had the same straw and wood buildings as the former, and a mill, but maybe twelve people without the one or two guards around.

As Skathi had her morning stew, she had nostalgic pangs at the small sights of this town. While her recollection of her hometown was lacking, this place felt like she was back there. She had the same feelings in Riverwood, brief as her time there was. Whatever reason she forgot where her home was, and of all the places she had been since then, she would love to find somewhere like this to settle down with someone, even though no one loved her.

She bought some bread for the road and set out for High Hrothgar; Lydia close in tow. Fortunately, the Seven-Thousand Steps were right on their doorstep. This little town laid in the shadow of the great mountain, built supposedly for pilgrims to the peak where the Greybeards’ temple stood. The convenience was remarkable, though it waned in the years to come.

On the way to the Steps, she found a conversation between a Nord and an Elf. One was old, the other was young.

“On your way up the 7,000 Steps again, Klimmek?” the young Elf asked.

“Not today,” the Nord, presumably Klimmek, replied, “I'm just not ready to make the climb to High Hrothgar. The path isn't safe.”

“Aren't the Greybeards expecting some supplies?” the Elf presumed.

“Honestly, I'm not certain,” Klimmek admitted, “I've yet to be allowed into the monastery. Perhaps one day.”

As the Elf went on with his day, Skathi could not help but take interest. He was remorsefully unable to fulfil his task he had clearly done for years, and she was already going to the top anyway, so she might as well offer her aid. It was only the polite thing to do.

“On your way to High Hrothgar?” Klimmek asked as Skathi approached, “About to make a delivery up there myself."

A lie, but that was excusable. “What types of deliveries do you make to High Hrothgar?” The outsider inquired.

“Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats,” he explained, “you know, things that keep fresh for a long time. The Greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning.”

Skathi felt she was missing an innuendo, but she could see some meaning in that. They lived in a monastery, there for meditation and training, not tavern town the road. A trip to the butcher was out of the question, and hunting was unlikely in such a terrain. She did wonder what he got out of this arrangement though.

“And in return?” the outsider inquired.

“Well, it's kind of an understanding between us,” Klimmek explained I mean, “it just wouldn't feel right to charge them for a bit of preserved food. Trouble is, my legs aren't what they used to be and climbing the Seven-Thousand Steps takes its toll.”

Looking at his legs, it was clear his legs had seen better days. He hardly kept to one side for long, if at all, and his feet were constantly moving, despite being stood still. It was clear even standing was painful for the old Nord.

“I could do it for you,” Skathi offered.

“Really?” Klimmek smirked, “That would be kind of you.” He picked up a large knapsack and handed over to the outsider. “Here. Take this bag of supplies,” he continued, “At the top of the steps you'll see the offering chest. Just leave the bag inside and you're done.”

Taking the bag in hand, was well weighted. Considering it was meant to feed the monks until the next while longer, it had to be heavy. Anything else and she might worry they were underfed.

“Anything I should watch out for during the climb?” Skathi inquired.

"Well, there's the occasional wolf pack or stray, but that's all I've ever had to deal with,” Klimmek shrugged, “Shouldn't be a problem for the likes of you. Other than that, watch your footing. In these wintry conditions, the stairs can be treacherous.”

As Skathi and her housecarl began to walk the trail up the mountain, she heard, “Be careful up there,” from the old Nord.

She would need the care. The Seven-Thousand Steps were long and hard, as well as frozen. One wrong move and she would fall right back down this ancient staircase and have a perfectly preserved body for the burial. A humiliating death for the Dragonborn, prophesied hero of Skyrim. Oh well, at least everyone would forget about her.

Skathi found many markers on her way up. On them were etched tablets that told the story of how Kynareth granted mortals the Voice. At one or two, a pilgrim would be there, if only to meditate on the words, not climb the other six-thousand nine-hundred steps. They were pleasant, she supposed, but she would not remember them for long.

Instead, she paid attention to the wolves. There were quite a few on the path, but she was warned about that. She and Lydia dispatched them easily enough, but then the odd bear would make things complicated. No matter, she was used to fighting animals for years.

Less so regarding trolls. They were a good way up when they encountered a frost troll, tall, white furred and three-eyed. Skathi hardly fought them before, usually avoiding them whenever possible. When she had no choice, she still stayed as far away as she could. This would require cunning.

“Fuck him up, Lydia,” she commanded her housecarl.

Lydia sighed and raised her shield for battle. She charged the troll, sword in hand, and attacked the beast, blade in its chest. It took stabbing the same way an adult takes to being poked by a needle and threw her aside. She picked herself up and tried again, but her next attack was just as fruitless.

Truthfully, this was just to see Lydia get thrown around. Skathi was cold with her to the point of being heated, so she appreciated the troll’s brutality. Still, she needed the sword-hand, so dealt with the beast the same way she dealt with trolls before. She crouched behind cover, drew her bow and loosed an arrow straight in its mouth and it fell, dead.

Lydia looked at her thane. “Was this really necessary?” she hissed.

“The arrow? Yes,” Skathi answered, “Your part? No, I just want to see you in pain.”

That little part of their relationship on display over, they continued to ascend until they reached the temple at High Hrothgar. The temple was old, stone as worn and chipped as the mountainside, mortared together with the snow and ice. And just as Klimmek said, an offering chest laid at the entrance.

Skathi put the knapsack of supplies in the chest and walked toward the entrance. As she opened the ancient bronze door, it sounded an echo as though it had not been used or maintained for an age. Entering, the temple itself was still warm, despite the freezing chill of the winds outside. It was good, as she had been walking for hours and was painfully tired.

As the door closed behind her, Skathi was greeted with a voice as old and wise as the tallest trees of this world.

“So, a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

Skathi found it coming from an old man in thick robes and a hood. He was flanked by three other monks of close age and dress. They moved without noise as though wind, not men. These ancient few were surely the Greybeards.

“I’m answering your summons,” Skathi submitted, bowing her head in respect.

“We will see if you truly have the gift,” the lead monk stated, “Tomorrow.”

Maybe she should’ve come back at a better time.

* * *

The past two days were tense. The Jagged Crown had gone missing with Ravani and Divines know were either went. Ulfric, in lieu of the crown, had gone to the war room and spent much of his time there in planning for the next battle. Rumors had it they would be invading Whiterun hold soon enough. This war was going to escalate, fast.

Jeanne understood this and had been preparing for battle. The court wizard, Wuunferth the Unliving, had given her tomes and training in destruction magic, which she practiced in the yard. She was also accepting tips anyone had on her sword arm and reading books around the subject. Her studies were to keep her alive out there, as she should.

She was in the middle of throwing fireballs harmlessly onto a wall when someone entered the yard. Ravani had returned, looking worse for wear, having clearly been on the road. Her skin and clothes had been covered in dirt and dust, and her apparel had been supplemented with clothes that came from who knows where. The Dunmer had not had it easy getting here and was clearly tired.

“Ravani!” Jeanne greeted as she ran to her, “Where have you been? Do have the crown? You look like you need a bath.”

Ravani nodded stiffly. “I do need a bath,” she replied, “No, I don’t have the crown, but I do have something else.”

She said nothing more as she entered the palace, Jeanne following suit. The guards didn’t stop them, clearly recognizing another shield-sister, despite the fact she had lost her colors. What had happened to the Jagged Crown? Ravani’s gloom was understandable, but where had she lost it? And what did she have that was still worth giving to Ulfric?

The war room’s discussion went silent when Ravani entered. Ulfric furrowed his brow, disappointed that she had taken so long. The Dunmer’s worn expression hardened in his presence. This was the man that she had sworn to follow, so what was it that brought this displeasure.

“Do you have the crown?” Ulfric inquired.

“No,” Ravani stated with understated venom, “but I have brought a message from the Jarl of Whiterun.”

“Is that so?” the unimpressed, but interested Jarl remarked, “I've been wondering when he'd come around.”

In a flash of movement, Ravani brought an axe down onto table with enough force to pierce the wood and map on top of it. The Galmar and the guards drew their weapons to defend, but the Dunmer’s hand never left the axe and the axe never left the table. She gave a hardened stare at Ulfric, who looked disappointed and enraged.

“You're quite brave to carry such a message,” he sneered, “It's a pity you've chosen the wrong side. You can return this axe to the man who sent it. And tell him he should prepare to entertain visitors. I expect a great deal of excitement in the city of Whiterun soon.”

Ravani took the axe from the table and left the war room, leaving a hole in the map and table where Windhelm had been. Jeanne was shocked this had happened. She didn’t understand what this meant, nor did she expect the result. She knew Whiterun had been abstinent in this conflict, but how it suddenly changed by this.

Most of all, she didn’t know what changed for Ravani. She didn’t know where Ravani came from, probably the Gray Quarter, but she obviously vowed to fight for Ulfric, the same as Jeanne. She clearly tolerated the Stormcloaks’ attitudes towards Dunmer, but was that no longer true? Jeanne didn’t know why she did it, but she wanted to know.

The Breton ran after Ravani as the guards raised shield and swords. “Let her leave,” Ulfric ordered, “She is no longer welcome in this city as long as I live.”

Ravani turned to face him. “I’ll hold you to your word,” she replied.

Jeanne just stood there as Ravani left the palace. She had a feeling she would never see her again. Even if she did, she may not have a choice but to kill her. The first Stormcloak she could call a shield-sister was now her enemy.  
But she had questions. She turned to Ulfric, who was staring at the ripped map. “What was that?” she asked.

“It is said that men who understand each other often have no need for words,” Ulfric explained, never looking up from the map, “There are but a few simple truths behind one warrior giving another his axe. By me denying Balgruuf’s axe, I have declared us enemies. Faren’s flare was aggressive, but pointless.”

Jeanne nodded, assuming it was a Nord tradition. “Would you have sent your axe to Balgruuf?” she asked, assuming he was Whiterun’s Jarl.

“Only if I had the Jagged Crown,” Ulfric stated, “Having it in my possession is a declaration of my right and intention to rule. It would’ve been obvious. By Balgruuf sending this message, he reveals that he or one of his allies has the crown. And Balgruuf would never make this declaration without Legion support.”

The implications of this were plain. “Do you think the Legion has the crown?” Jeanne speculated.

“Possible,” the Jarl replied in the middle of realizing he couldn’t read a ripped map now, “The response time for all this makes more sense, but we should still make sure it isn’t in Whiterun.”

“Is that why you’re invading?” Jeanne asked.

Ulfric looked up. “No,” he replied, “All of this is just war.”

Jeanne nodded and left. She had been taught no lessons as to the nature of war. Her parents gave her no lessons, as they didn’t want her to go down this path. She had to assume the invasion of Whiterun wasn’t personal, as having it could be advantageous. If it wasn’t, she didn’t know how to feel. Ultimately, she was just another soldier in a war she didn’t fully understand.

Without any knowledge of how to react to this, Jeanne just went back out to the yard and practice her magic again. The weather was cold, the coldest weather she ever felt, but she told herself that her fire would be enough to warm her, but she knew she was lying to herself. She practiced until nightfall.

When she was worn and the sky was dark, she let herself rest in the yard, possibly ready to fall asleep. She noticed some put a blanket on her shoulders, picked her up and brought her to her bed in the barracks. Jeanne didn’t know who, not paying attention enough until they left the room, closing the door behind them.

* * *

Dinner with the Greybeards was silent. Not one word was said, save those Skathi would say out of the courtesy her mother taught her. While she was used to a lack of speech with her food, the fact that there were others, and not one said a word, made her anxious.

The next morning, the outsider found a set of robes laid out with the same design as the Greybeards’. They were elegant and lined with fur inside. It itched and scratched, so Skathi wore her dress underneath it to maintain her focus. She would need it for her training. Once she was dressed, the Greybeards led her to a foyer and were all present.

“Shout at us, Dragonborn,” the speaking monk, called Arngeir as she learned, ordered, “and let us taste your Voice.”

Skathi had to prepare herself. They meant the power she stole from the dragon; not what children make when something wrong happens. She had only used it once before and it felt strange to use it, like she was spitting fire that would burn her alive if it wanted. She calmed herself and gave Shout with the only word she knew would work:

**“Fus!”**

The force was thrown simple pots and vases but was powerful enough to push Arngeir and another monk aside. They were stumbled against the walls, pushing them to the floor. This was unintentional and Skathi was about to apologize, but the speaking monk was quicker to speak.

“Dragonborn, it is you!” he proclaimed, collecting himself, “You are welcomed to High Hrothgar.” He inquired, “Now, tell me why you have come here.”

The was only one answer Skathi could give. “I’m answering your summons, master,” she explained.

“We are honored to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar,” Arngeir stated “We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny”

“What is my destiny?” Skathi asked.

“That is for you to discover,” he replied, “We can show you the Way, but not your destination.”

That left the outsider without comfort. She needed direction, not some ambiguous destiny to strive towards. She needed a reason to be here. Otherwise, she would be content to be queen of woods, if not for the guilt of ignorance. Unless she was presented with an objective, she would just useless.

“I'm ready to learn,” she muttered.

"You have shown that you are Dragonborn,” Arngeir stated, “You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

Skathi felt cross at him. He just said she had to find her destiny, but he implied with this that he knew something of it. Was he afraid she would go off to meet it without training? If this is how they would treat, she would go off and do just that.

“Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout,” the speaking monk stated, “Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power.”

“All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power,” he continued, “As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you "Ro," the second Word in Unrelenting Force. Ro means ‘Balance’ in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus, ‘Force’, to focus your Thu'um more sharply.”

One of the monks stepped forth and breathed "Ro," against the ground. Like fire, words burned into the ground in the language of her first word. She looked upon it and she could understand it. It all came to her naturally, as though she was relearning a skill from when she child all over again. She was quick to learn the new word.

"You learn a new word like a master,” Arngeir remarked, “you truly do have the gift. But learning a Word of Power is only the first step. You must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts.

“As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly,” he continued to explain, “As part of your initiation, Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of ‘Ro’.”

Einarth opened his arms and ribbons of energies flew out from him. They writhed through the air and found their way into Skathi’s mind. It was much like when she absorbed the dragon’s power, but far less ancient in how it felt. She could almost see into his mind, experiencing his own life before her very eyes, but not. It was strange.

“Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use your Unrelenting Force shout to strike the targets as they appear.”

**"Fiik Lo Sah!"**

One of the monks Shouted and a ghostly form akin to him appeared. Skathi calmed herself and tested her Voice upon it with “Fus Ro!” and it disappeared into nothing. They repeated, summoning another apparition and she Shouted it to dust again. One last time, they summoned the form and she sent it back from whence it came.

“Impressive,” Arngeir remarked, “Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri.”

Skathi was almost lost as to who to follow, as she only knew two of their names. As such, she just picked on and let him lead her out the back of the building. The weather was as cold as ever here, though her robes held her against the cold well enough.

“We will now see how you learn a completely new Shout,” Arngeir stated, “Master Borri will teach you ‘Wuld,’ which means ‘Whirlwind’.”

“Wuld,” one of monks spoke. Like before, dragon text appeared on the ground as though it branded into the stone and snow. And like before, Skathi learned it without much effort. She wondered why it took years if it could be this easy.

“You must hear the word within yourself before you can project it into a Thu'um,” the speaking monk stated, “Approach Master Borri and he will gift you his knowledge of ‘Wuld’.”

Like before, the ribbons flew and gave a look into another’s mind, but this was different. Instead of the force and will break rock, Skathi found the understanding of the wind and how to be one with it. She felt she could throw herself into the air and she would fly across it without resistance.

“Now we will see how quickly you can master a new Shout,” Arngeir stated, “Master Wulfgar will demonstrate Whirlwind Sprint. Then it will be your turn. Master Borri.”

**“Bex!”**

From the other side of the courtyard, a gate opened. Without any sign of preparing his body, one of the monks flew to the words, "Wuld Nah Kest!" he shouted and was launched to the other side the gate. Such speed, faster than birds of prey or sabre-tooth tigers that propelled him forward. Skathi could hardly believe one could reach such speed.

“Now it is your turn,” Arngeir stated, “Stand next to me. Master Borri will open the gate. Use your Whirlwind Sprint to pass through before it closes.”

Skathi stood next to the speaking monk and calmed herself. This would be somewhat difficult to learn a new way to wield her Voice. Instead of this force effecting others, she would be affecting herself. She would be thrown through the air, nothing else. She tried to loosen her body, but to no avail. This was going to be stressful.

**"Bex!"**

At the sound of Borri’s Voice, the student shouted, “Wuld!” and was thrown across the courtyard. She felt as though she were one with the wind, as though Kynareth were guiding her to her target. It was the same way when she loosed an arrow toward its target and it instantly kill its appointed fiend. The only difference was that she was arrow.

Without any sense that time had gone by, she reached the other side of the gate and almost off the cliff behind it. It was exhilarating, if not terrifying. She felt free from this world, if only for a moment. Once Skathi gathered herself, she approached Arngeir for the next lesson.

“Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is astonishing,” the speaking monk remarked, “I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself.” He trailed off, as though in disbelief.

“I don't know how I do it,” Skathi stated, “It just happens.”

"You were given this gift by the gods for a reason,” Arngeir explained, “It is up to you to figure out how to best use it. You are now ready for your last trial.”

“Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav,” he continued, “Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you will return.”

“As you wish,” Skathi replied, bowing her head, “Is it alright if I rest first?”

“You may,” he answered and headed back to the temple.

Skathi sat on the stone and snow in the courtyard, exhilarated by the experience, but it soon faded. It was replaced with a strange serenity. From this mountain peak, nothing could pass through the clouds. It was like all the world’s problem would not reach her here. It felt good, even if guilt gripped her and told her that she should be down there, not up here.

But that was not for today. Today, she meditated at the Throat of the World, breathing in the air as cold as death, but welcoming as the morning sun.


	12. Chapter 12

A sudden cry of the horn woke up Rena. It took her a moment to realize to wake and realize why to was sounded. Not to simply rouse the troops; it was for warning the city of a coming attack.

The entire barracks scrambled, picking themselves out of bed like someone put burning coals on the mattresses. Anyone still asleep was shaken awake by those slapped their armor together. They grabbed their swords, shields, bows and arrows and bolted from the barracks, ready as they could for war.

The Imperials and guards alike ran through the streets to the walls, the day breaking in the sky. The townsfolk, those who were still awake in these hours, ran for cover, to protect their families. Many a tired face from an absence of enough sleep could be seen, but their bodies would not give out. Worn as they were, they were prepared to fight.

At the walls, the Stormcloak warband could be seen. The entire valley had been filled with blue clad soldiers and war machines. Balls of fire from catapults were launched into the city, smashing into unflinching rock and falling onto either something that couldn’t or something that could catch. Archers loosed arrows at the walls in hope of getting past the shields stood strong.

Rena ordered, “Archers, nock,” in the loudest voice she could, “pull, loose!”

Her own archers loosed a volley into the sea of Stormcloaks and their shields blocked it, not a single body could be seen falling. But that could easily be because their ranks were packed that tight, not that the arrows hadn’t found purchase. The Stormcloaks loosed their own volley but fell just short of the city’s emplacements.

Then there was no mercy. One of the catapults launch its fiery materials but was falling too soon to make it over the walls. Too late did Rena realize this meant it would land into the Legionnaires’ formation. Before she could say anything, before they had the chance to bolt, the flaming rock smashed into a shield wall, the three furthest back losing their grip and falling to their deaths.

The soldiers left were better off, only because they weren’t dead. When the healers dragged them away, six soldiers were covered in burns, two of them with mangled shield arms from absorbing the blast. Rena prepared to call another volley but was cut short by another flaming rock finding purchase on the wall. But falls to their deaths, more burnt soldiers, less men on the wall.

“Archers!” Rena yelled with a losing voice, “Nock, pull, loose!”

Another volley into the mass of shields that saw little results. Another flaming rock was launched into emplacements. Another six or so soldiers were dragged away in pain. It would become mundane, but then the Stormcloak archers finally gain some semblance of skill and one of their volleys sent a dozen or so soldiers to their deaths. It was horrific.

To make things worse, a siege ladder emerged from the Stormcloak ranks. It locked onto the wall and soldiers began to climb. One soldiers, visible hatred even from the gate, put his sword away and ready his hand for something. As the first soldier was almost to the emplacements, a strike of lightning shot from the Legionnaire’s hand and twenty odd Stormcloaks lost their grip from the shock. Most fell to their deaths. Battlemage. Right.

“Battlemages!” Rena ordered, “To the walls! Fill the ranks!”

A hundred odd soldiers ran up the walls, throwing fire balls and bolts of lightning all the way. Even then, it wouldn’t be enough to keep the warband out of the city. Rena knew this. They had a battering ram ready, protected by too many shield bearers. There was nothing she could do but wait to watch this city fall.

Oh, as if that was her choice. See, a choice can’t exist without another. And there was another.

“Ansgar!” Rena called, “Kill them all!”

The Nord Legionnaire had been behind the gate, waiting for it to break open the entire siege. Even from this high up, past his closed helmet, Rena could see a grin on his face.

Rena went back to the battering ram. Before it could even make another strike, the gate opened and it was thrown like a toy into the sea of Stormcloaks, as were many of their comrades. Ansgar led Mariqa and several soldiers into the fray, himself standing tall with his Zweihander. Ulfric wanted a war, so he would have it.

With the warband occupied, Rena ordered another volley. With the battlemages’ attacks and Ansgar’s opportunity for glory, few stood or paid attention to note the arrows that punched a hole into the ranks. Another volley was ordered, similar results.

The Stormcloak commander must have panicked and ordered another volley from the catapults. Before they found purchase, the battlemages froze the rocks and broke them apart with a fireball. Another volley, same results. There were a least ten battlemages for every war machine at their disposal. You couldn’t outflank the best in Tamriel.

Rena looked back at Ansgar’s charge and it was brutal. Many a guard and Legionnaire fell, but so did the Stormcloaks. It looked as though he was carving through to the catapults, but even with his obvious movements, they could nothing to stop him. Sometimes, you can know the strategy well enough to know you can’t stop what’s about to happen.

Ansgar broke the catapults with his mighty Zweihander, frightening the warband. What they must have realized was that they had been outflanked and wouldn’t be able to win now. Every time their try to climb or raise a siege ladder, they would get struck down by flame or spark. Their shield wall was falling to the volleys. They had to realize this battle was lost.

They must have, as the warband began to retreat. Soldiers ran from their formations to the valley’s exit. Many still stood their ground, but their shields were shattered, and the Legion volleys carefully avoided their own soldiers and allies. Finally, the valley was emptying. They understood this battle, they would fail. Rena couldn’t count how many soldiers there were when the battle began but figured around three hundred Stormcloaks were still alive.

Rena descended the walls and walked into the fields bellow. She could see so many fallen soldiers, piles of them. So many bodies. She could walk in any direction and still need to guide her foot away from stepping onto a body. She hadn’t the opportunity to survey the aftermath of another battle, always needed to run at the end. This was a lot to take in.

She found Ansgar on top of the rubble of a catapult, cleaning his sword. “That isn’t the end of it,” he stated.

Rena nodded. “I doubt that was all their soldiers in the Reach,” she agreed, “Still, this was a victory.”

“Not for long,” Ansgar remarked, “Not when they come back.”

Rena quietly asked, “Any suggestions?”

“One.”

* * *

That one suggestion was something no one could believe. When they went to Legate Admand with the idea, Rena was certain it wouldn’t get far. The fact it was approved was either a sign of faith on his part or an indication of how desperate they were for anything that might work. That might be misplaced in his part.

Herself, Ansgar, Mariqa and twenty odd troops road into a Forsworn camp. Not charging, not attacking, riding. Their intention wasn’t to clear them out. Hardly. It was to ask for their aid.

Rena had never seen Forsworn before. She heard rumors that they were barely clothed barbarians, followers of old gods and inherently violent. She wasn’t sure what to make of them, so didn’t pay too much attention to them, but now in their presence, she couldn’t help trying to find anything she might have heard about Forsworn etiquette.

For starters, the Forsworn weren’t just barely clothed for winter as she assumed; they wore deliberately exposing clothes. As for their worship, their reverence for Hagravens was noticeable around the camp, with the creatures walking around like they weren’t anything to fear but honor. What they could tell for their violent side, the most immediate thing they noticed was how many arrows were trained on them.

When they came to the largest tent in the camp, spiked swords were drawn against them. Rena assumed Ansgar took this tent to be their leader’s. From the crowd, one Forsworn stood out in front of the captain. Given she was a woman, he was visibly uncomfortable with her scant clothing. Rena didn’t stare.

“I seek an audience with your chief,” Ansgar announced.

“Then you’ll not find him in the medicine tent,” the woman stated, “Follow me.”

The Forsworn put away their blades as the Legionnaires dismounted and followed the woman. Ansgar seemed ashamed of his mistake, but maybe it was because of her attire. To be honest, Rena assumed it would never be the former and always be the latter. He just always seemed like the most sheltered idealist she’d ever seen. She naturally assumed this would kill their chances with the chieftain.

They eventually reached a tent that lack any distinguishing features on the outside that it was special. The troop entered and found a typical Forsworn sat on a bed. He was painted with tribal tattoos and dressed in pelts meant to keep him warm, but it was doubtful they worked. He looked akin to a Breton but was as hardy and fierce as a Nord. He didn’t look impressed.

“Who are you scabs?” he asked.

“Captain Ansgar Nordson,” the Legionnaire curtsied, “This is Captain Rena Donton. We come to speak with you.”

The chief just raised an eyebrow at Ansgar’s last name, as did Rena. “I’m Wulded Randela,” he stated, “I lead the Forsworn in place of our king, Madanach.”

Madanach was the leader of the Forsworn some decades ago. He led them to take the city of Markarth during the Great War, as the Nord armies were all away. This didn’t last, as Ulfric Stormcloak took it back in a brutal display that gave him the title “the Bear of Markarth”. Their leader was slain and most fled in terror.

But that is not what makes it relevant to the Empire or Aldmeri Dominion. Ulfric only agreed to reclaim the city if a it became a haven of Talos worship. They agreed, but those concerned didn’t approve, so the shrine of Talos was walled off and Ulfric was arrested. He escaped and that was the beginning of his rebellion, even if the war didn’t begin for years.

“What do you what with us?” Wulded asked.

“We wish to ask for your aid against the Stormcloak’s conquest,” Ansgar stated, “I know you would fight them anyway, but- “

“I would fight Ulfric,” Wulded interrupted, “his followers mean nothing to me. I fight anyone who wants to wipe us out, you included.”

Ansgar sighed. He cut his teeth in the Reach, hunting Forsworn raiders. “I hunted you because I was assigned to keep the Reach safe from threats,” he explained, “We will request you not attack travelers on the road, but we’re willing to discuss terms to a treaty.”

Wulded nodded, “Alright. I want to be Jarl.”

Ansgar’s mouth was agape, but what was he expecting? The Forsworn wanted their homeland free from outside rule and this would accomplish that. Did he assume they wouldn’t want something they could only get from the Empire? This kid of thirty-so years needed to wise up.

“I don’t think I can get you that,” the Nord captain explained, “But I think I can have some land set aside for your people.”

The chieftain smirked. “I can assist your war, keep my people from attacking travelers and swear loyalty to whatever king you put on the throne,” he explained, “but I want my people to a place they can call their home, not the Nord’s home. You have nothing I want.”

Rena knew it wouldn’t end well. There was nothing she could think of they want beyond to rule themselves and no one chooses to give up something from its control. If he wanted to have the Reach leave Skyrim or even the Empire’s jurisdiction, that is what he wanted, and no one would just give him.

“What if we gave you supplies?” Ansgar offered.

“And what would we trade them with?” Wulded questioned, “Face it, you have no authority to give me what I actually want.”

Then Ansgar’s face melted into pride. He must have gotten an idea. “What about Ulfric’s head?” he asked.

Wulded raised his eyebrow. “Do you think you could do that?” he asked.

The Legionnaire nodded. “If we have your loyalty, we will give you land, resources and whatever you wish from Ulfric’s estate,” he offered, “Now, do we have a deal?”

The chieftain thought for a moment. “Deal,” he stated, holding his hand out and Ansgar’s met it.

So, they had a deal. They would have to put it past Legate Admand first, but they had something. Rena had no clue if it would be accepted or if it was another promise to break in the Reach. She hoped, for the sake of the war effort, it would not be questioned and would be followed to the letter. If not, there would be no peace.

But then Rena realized they left Mariqa outside. She checked and found the Khajiit twitching at the sight of the hagravens. It was as though their very presence was trying to horrify and offend him. It would drive him mad just by being there.  
“This one wishes to leave,” he seethed, “I can’t trust myself with these creatures.”

Neither could Rena, to be honest.

* * *

All this travelling around had worn Skathi out. She had been from Eastmarch to Solitude within a week and that always takes a toll on you. She was catching sleep on the cart, too tired for horseback riding. She would love to stop running around the province and just stay somewhere quiet for enough time to feel comfortable, but Dragonborn never sleep, do they?

On this little adventure, she was going to Riften, a city on the opposite end of Skyrim to Solitude. Delphine sent her to find and secure Esbern, the Blade they discovered alive. The Breton seemed to have a history with him, as though he once warned of the dragons’ return. He potentially had information that could help drive them back, so it was obvious they needed him.

Skathi barely got any sleep on the cart, especially since it was the middle of the day. She was just trying to catch up when it came to a halt. At this stop, she groaned and threw herself off the cart, landing face first on the ground. Could she just have a day off? Or a night’s rest? For once?

She picked herself up and brushed herself down. All clean as she was going to get, the outsider headed over to the gate. The guards at their post were clad in purple sashes, a scaled vest and a mail shirt. Something seemed hauntingly familiar about them, besides their uniform in common with other hold guards. It was unnerving.

“Hold there,” one of the guards ordered, “Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor's tax.”

Odd. She never had to pay to enter a town or village before, even the capital of Skyrim. “What's the tax for?” Skathi asked.

“For the privilege of entering the city,” the guard explained, “What does it matter?”

If it did not have a purpose, it did not have a need. “This is obviously a shakedown,” Skathi proclaimed, putting an emphasis on the ‘shakedown.’

“All right, keep your voice down,” the guard panicked, “you want everyone to hear you? I'll let you in, just let me unlock the gate.”

This corrupt guard dealt with, Skathi entered the city. The buildings were built from wood and stones and held together with moss. The roads were dotted with more beggars in rags than she had ever seen. The guards could be seen accepting gold from characters without any sign they were the jarl’s men. It was clear this was not a clean city.

Her contact here was named Brynjolf, a Nord by the sound of it. However, she did not know which Nord here he was. It was Skyrim. For all she knew, he could be anyone from the beggars on the streets to the jarl’s right-hand man. She would need to ask, so she went over to one of the vendors, a Dunmer, and asked. Turns out, he was the vendor selling potions opposite him, so she went over to him.

“You’re Brynjolf?” she asked.

“Eye, lass,” he replied, “Whatcha here for?”

“I'm looking for this old guy hiding out in Riften,” she explained

“Expecting free information, eh?” he remarked, “Help me deal with business first, then we'll see how I can help you.”

“Dragons are bad for business,” Skathi stated, “I can make them go away.”

He took a moment to swallow the implications of that statement. “Aye, you've got a point there,” he agreed, “Your guy's hiding out in the Ratway Warrens and paying us good coin for nobody to know about it. Well, until now that is.”  
“Thanks,” the outsider replied, setting some coin on the counter, “For your trouble.”

* * *

After a lengthy and bloody trip into the Ratway, Skathi found her way into the Warrens, a haven for strange and unsettling characters. A legion veteran muttering about the battles he fought. An old woman keeping track of what few possessions she still had. A man in an apron and chef’s hat talking to himself like everyone else was meat to butcher and cook. If Esbern were here, she hoped still had his senses.

Skathi poked around until she came to a door, she could not open and she was certain it could still be opened. She knocked on the steel and wood door and a window opened to reveal an old man. He was most likely Esbern. He seemed strong; despite the knowledge he was almost eighty years of age. Makes sense, given he was trained to slay dragons and protect someone who would most likely have a great amount of violence ahead of them.

“Go away!" he barked.

“Esbern? Open the door. I'm a friend,” Skathi asked.

“What?! No, that's not me. I'm not Esbern,” he reeled, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It's okay. Delphine sent me,” she tried to explain.

"Delphine? How do you?” he wondered before coming back with full fire, “So you've finally found her, and she led you to me. And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap."

The Breton gave her a contingency for this. “Delphine said to ‘remember the 30th of Frostfall,” Skathi stated.

His defense was lowered at that codeword’s use, like hearing your family call your name as you ran away. “Ah. Indeed, indeed. I do remember,” he sighed, “Delphine really is alive, then? You'd better come in then and tell me how you found me and what you want.”

He shut the window and mechanical sounds and an old man’s muttering could be heard. It was surely the locks, but there were so many, it was hard to be sure it was just that and not an array of music boxes all be wound up. Eventually, he did open the door.  
“So, Delphine keeps up the fight, after all these years,” Esbern mused, “I thought she'd have realized it's hopeless by now. I tried to tell her, years ago." He trailed off into a memory. Perhaps not a good one.

“The Thalmor have found you,” Skathi stated, “We must get out of here.”

"Yes, yes, so you said. But so, what?” Esbern questioned, “The end is upon us. I may as well die here as anywhere else. I'm tired of running."

“What do you mean, ‘the end is upon us’?” the outsider asked.

"Haven't you figured it out yet? What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what's going on? Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said!” he proclaimed, “The Dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him. I tried to tell them. They wouldn't listen. Fools. It's all come true. All I could do was watch our doom approach."

“Alduin,” Skathi repeated, that word echoing in her mind coming doom, “the dragon who's raising the others?”

"Yes, yes! You see, you know but you refuse to understand!” Esbern raved, “Oh, yes. It's all been foretold. The end has begun. Alduin has returned. Only a Dragonborn can stop him. But no Dragonborn has been known for centuries. It seems the gods have grown tired of us. They've left us to our fate, as the plaything of Alduin the World-Eater.”

Then she could not turn aside. She was prophecy incarnate; a warrior sent by the Divines to evade destruction. If she left all this behind, ultimate death would follow. Alduin, she had heard that name before, probably referring to the Black Dragon of Helgen. Good. She wanted to kill that Beast.

“It's not hopeless, Esbern. I'm Dragonborn,” Skathi proclaimed.

“What? You're, can it really be true? Dragonborn?” the old Blade stuttered, “Then, then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must, we must, we must go, quickly now. Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss.”

As he packed, the golden armor of Thalmor soldiers could be seen outside. They were here for Esbern, no doubt. Some of the occupants here tried to fight them but were fruitless in this effort. Well, with the world at stake, these few could stand to be thrown apart. And so, the Dragonborn drew her sword and gave a Shout.

**“Fus Ro!”**

* * *

Legate Admand wasn’t known for being diplomatic. He followed orders, gave orders and expected his soldiers to follow orders. He was career Legion, devoting his life to follow his general’s orders. War was his craft, so there was little room for the work ascribed to those who don’t fight, that of lords and generals. He fought, they made peace. The fact he even considered Ansgar’s plan was almost uncharacteristic.

So, when Rena and Ansgar came back with what the terms of the treaty, there was much discourse.

“Are you mad?!” yelled Jarl Igmund.

“Possibly,” the Thalmor, Ondolemar, remarked.  
Legate Admand sighed. “Listen, this is what my officers suggested,” he stated, “I can hammer out a better deal if you want.”

The Jarl leaped out of his throne. “There will be no deal with savages!” he screamed and left. Admand led Ansgar to another room, presumably to chew him out.

Rena knew the jarl wouldn’t accept it. He was there when Markarth was taken so many years ago. He was forced from his home for two years. After that, his father tried to make peace with the Forsworn, who died in the process. It was understandable that he wouldn’t want to give them anything in the deal.

But there wasn’t much choice. They lost many in the initial attack on Markarth, around three hundred in all. They still had over fifteen hundred soldiers in all, but this war was about fighting fast and loosing lives fast. If they didn’t force the Stormcloaks out, they would overtake the Reach.

Ondolemar approached the Legionnaires. “You know, it sounds like a perfectly acceptable deal,” he remarked, “The only problem is that the jarl won’t buy it.”

Rena looked at him with a doubtful expression. “I don’t think I can trust that,” she stated.

He sighed. “When will you Legion types accept that we’re only here for your best interest?” he asked.

“Your government’s policy towards the races of Men is about as forgiving as the Red Mountain to Dunmer,” she sneered, “Until that changes, I won’t be able to take anything you say seriously.”

Ondolemar looked disappointed. “Why don’t you understand that we just want to improve your civilizations?” he remarked, “The worship of mortals as gods is unhealthy, as you can see. The infighting and hatred towards others must be made better. We simply want to uplift all of mankind.”

“With a knife to the back?” Rena growled.

His disappointment burned to barely contained contempt. “I would rather not be here,” he stated, “Because of this damn invasion, I had to skip out on a party held by Ambassador Elenwen to observe the situation.”

“That was your mistake,” Rena remarked.

Ondolemar left in a huff. It was unprofessional to have such a spat with a Thalmor diplomat, but he was hardly diplomatic. Rena accepted this was probably going to hurt her career, send her to the most remote post at the edge of High Rock. She hoped that it wouldn’t, but it was how it would go, most likely.

Legate Admand and Ansgar returned from their discussion. Ansgar looked seething. That seemed likely, as he just seemed like someone who needed a good talking to. He had his own way, which he thought was right, and thought everyone else needed some shoring up. Sounds like most people, but he wasn’t subtle about it.

“So, how are we going to do this?” Rena asked.

Admand sighed. “Further talks with the Forsworn will require the presence of myself, Jarl Igmund and Observer Ondolemar,” he stated.

That made sense. It was a question as to why they weren’t part of discussion already. The Jarl was the Jarl, the Legate was the Legate, and neither could take a piss in a stream without a Thalmor to check. Admand did give them a mandate and numerous methods of bargaining, but Ulfric’s estate and reservations of land weren’t amongst them.

The Forsworn wouldn’t be happy. Their original requests were far more outrageous, so haggling further down from that would require Zenithar’s greatest blessing since the gift of coin. That may have been an exaggeration, but a simple man, a vengeful jarl and a Thalmor didn’t sound like they’d make such a good treaty.

Speaking of unhappiness, Mariqa didn’t seem pleased by something. He was stood in the foyer, starring into a hallway. He hissed at first, but then went into a noise Rena only heard when she cornered an ally cat. The men on guard didn’t seem to know what to make of this.

Rena went up to him and asked, “What are you doing?”

One of the guards answered first. “He seems to be yowling at the Hall of the Dead.”

“Something bad is in there,” he stated.

And suddenly, the sound of horns blasted into the air. It was to signal that another army was approaching with unknown intention. Bizarre, as they weren’t expecting anyone. It couldn’t be the Forsworn, as they hadn’t finalized the deal. It couldn’t be Legion or Stormcloak, as the horns would declare more certain intentions. What was out there?

Rena and Ansgar bolted through the streets and many Legionnaires followed them. The citizens, who should be enjoying dinner by now, were now frozen in anticipation at their doorways. They knew as much as the guards and soldiers did but were far more afraid that the army may turn out to be hostile.

When Rena reached the wall, she saw who it was. It was a host of Forsworn raiders with helmeted heads on pikes and a Stormcloak flag in hand. Were they back from war or here for their new allies? Both were terrible prospects.

One raider stepped forward, taking off his horn headdress to reveal himself as Wulded. “The Stormcloaks are slain!” he declared.

Many soldiers cheered and passed word, causing an eruption from the entire city. Rena and Ansgar meanwhile were silently looking at each other in dread. They knew what everyone else did, but more. They did this on the assumption that the deal was valid, but that wasn’t true with the jarl’s disapproval. When they found out, it there would be blood.

The gatekeepers led the Forsworn into the city. Many citizens were silenced by discovering who their saviors were. Rena and Ansgar kept up with them as they marched through the city in victory. Wulded led his men to Jarl Igmund and entourage. The atmosphere was palpable.

“Prepare your finest ale, my friends!” the war chief belted, “Tonight, we celebrate a grand victory!”

Divines save them from the living Oblivion about to come upon them.


	13. Chapter 13

To no one’s surprise, the Forsworn were outraged that the other end of the deal wasn’t going to be held up. Wulded immediately tried to kill Jarl Igmund, charging at him with swords drawn, and none of his followers held him back. The guards and Legionnaires stood in his way; shields raised. After a second to think, the Forsworn held their leader back.

The Forsworn warriors were a strong force, but only six hundred. The Legion and city guard numbered around two thousand. Wulded’s host would be able to steal, kill and destroy much of the city, they wouldn’t be able to win the battle. After they were dead, they could easily wipe out what’s left of the tribe with no one to stop them.

The next day, they would meet to discuss an amendment.

Rena, Ansgar and two captains of the Reach escorted a diplomatic entourage to Reachwind Eyrie with a battalion of men. It was made of Jarl Igmund, Legate Admand, Ondolemar, and Thonar Silver-Blood, with Igmund’s housecarl Faleen acting as head of security. Now, most of those made sense, with Igmund being needed to approve of any treaty, Admand being a force to draft one against the Stormcloaks, Ondolemar as an observer for the Thalmor and Faleen as a trusted protector against assassination, but Thonar was just a businessman. No one understood it.

Reachwind Eyrie was a tower stood upon a cliff. It was of Dwemer origin, left behind like Markarth when they disappeared. No had claimed it as their own in all that time, though it had been used by unaffiliated mages over the years. It was currently unoccupied, so it was the agreed area for the summit.

Wulded’s entourage was already there. They were shaman and warriors, distinct from the host behind them. Rena didn’t know if the soldiers behind her many as the soldiers were ahead of her as behind her. If it was less, they could easily take them in battle if this was to turn south. If it was as many or more, hopefully the better equipped Legionnaires and hold guards were enough to take the far more ruthless Forsworn raiders. Hopefully, it was unnecessary.

The soldiers set up tables and chairs in the yard for the talks. The Markarth party was on one side and the Forsworn were on the other. It was at high noon that they sat down to talk. Servants set out food and drinks for lunch. Wulded seemed to read something and frown. Rena didn’t recall him getting anything.

And so, they began.

“Let me begin by apologizing that we are unable to fulfill our end of the deal,” Legate Admand spoke first, offhandedly looking at Ansgar, “We hadn’t discussed the terms before you attacked the Stormcloak camp.”

One of the shamans replied, “If you were unable to fulfill any of the terms you discussed, why did your envoy present them?”

He sighed. “My envoy was given numerous options for the treaty, but land and Ulfric’s estate was not amongst them,” he stated, “I should’ve been clearer with him on these points.”

“Then what will you give us?” Wulded seethed. The treaty obviously upset him, but there was something Rena couldn’t tell what that gnawed at him.

“Nothing,” Jarl Igmund stated, “The Reach will give you nothing.

Thonar, the one out of place, spoke up. “Let’s not be hasty. We can find a fine reward for your services.”

“We want no gold you could give us, Silver-Blood,” Wulded growled, “You know what we want.”

Legate Admand spoke up. “The Reach doesn’t need to give you anything! All of what we can give you is under the Empire’s protection.”

The shaman laughed. “What’s the protection of a dying empire worth nowadays?” she inquired.

“Please,” Thonar asked, “Can we discuss this like the civilized human beings we are?” Ondolemar sneered. How come he was so silent?

“These are savages, not civilized folk,” Igmund hissed through his teeth.

“Oh, really?!” Wulded barked, jumping onto the table, “If that’s the way you want to treat us!”

Before the warlord could draw his blade, Ansgar stood between them. “Please!” he commanded, “We must discuss this as allies! If we are to protect the Reach from Ulfric’s reign, we cannot allow ourselves to be divided.” He continued, “Between him and the Empire, we will let you live your lives. The Stormcloaks were hunt you down like dogs!”

“This, coming from the man that hunt our people himself?” one of the warriors spoke up. Another asked, “And gave us such empty promises before?”

Of all the ways for Ansgar to get his, a public shaming was not what Rena expected. Honestly, there was more she could add that they didn’t even know, like unintentionally causing all this in the first place. Still, this was unhelpful toward their goals and she couldn’t just let it stand.

“Ansgar’s an ass, but we ought to take his advice and just talk,” she interjected.

The Markarth party had the vague sense of agreement. They didn’t say anything, only looking at one another. Wulded just looked at them, waiting for something to come out of their lips.

Igmund begrudgingly look at the Forsworn. “We can allow your camp to thrive and give you supplies to improve it, make your own settlement,” he offered, “Out of the Empire and Silver-Blood’s pockets, of course, but you will be under my protection. My guards will patrol your land as they would the other towns in the Reach. You will be a protectorate state of Skyrim.”

“Agreed,” Legate Admand nodded.

“Agreed,” Thonar sighed.

Wulded looked in as much begrudging acceptance as Igmund. “Agreed,” he seethed.

They brought ink and paper and drafted the treaty there and then. The Markarth party signed it, as did Wulded, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it. It was like he wanted to have over with and leave as soon as possible. Once it was certainly acceptable to leave the summit, he left with his army in tow.

“Personally, I would’ve put some decent clothes in the treaty,” Ansgar remarked.

“I meant what I said about you,” Rena stated.

“I know.”

* * *

Skathi was on the front porch of the Sleeping Giant, waiting for Esbern and Delphine to finish up. She had managed to escort the old Blade to Riverwood but was absolutely worn from all the travel and action. As such, she was content to ditch her armor and rest for a day in more comfortable dress.

While the Blades dictated her fate, Skathi was content to eat apple pie. She might accept her fate as Dragonborn, but that was not the same finding her path to meet it. She was upset she had no agency, but at least it was less tress stress on her head. Was that even worth it? She may be stressed, but at least she would be a master of her fate.

“My thane!” Lydia called.

Skathi looked up from her plate to see her housecarl. Strange to see her. The thane had not seen her in a while. With all the travel from Solitude to Riften, she did not have the time to stay in one place for long. As such, they had not spoken in some time. She blessed that time apart.

Stepping onto the porch, Lydia remarked, “It’s been a lot time, my thane. What do you wish of me?”

Skathi just looked at cold, dead expression. “Nothing,” she stated and went back to her pie.

Lydia sighed. “You may not like having a housecarl, but it’s my duty to serve you in whatever way you see fit,” she replied.

Skathi shrugged. “I suppose that’s why I haven’t called upon you,” she speculated, “I don’t think I have any use for you.”

Lydia had a grouchy look on her face. “I could trace your genealogy for you,” she purposed, “I have some experience with that, and I doubt anyone’s going to torch the libraries any time soon.”

Skathi thought about this. She had forgotten so much since entering the wilderness. She could not say if it was all bad memories that caused her to run away or she needed to make space in her mind for all the survival skill she needed. Perhaps this could help remember some things, or at least know where she came from.

“Alright,” she replied, “You can do it.”

“Oh, good!” Lydia cheered, happy to finally have a task, “All I need to know for this is your family name.”

Skathi’s face scrunched in confusion. “I thought you knew,” she remarked, “It’s Wolf-Runner.”

“I know that, but how do you spell it?” Lydia explained.

Her thane was close to answering, but her brain failed to function. She had no idea how to spell. She knew how to read fine enough but could not string letters together to make a word if she had on hour and all the letters written down.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Lydia looked confused. “Didn’t your parents teach you how to read?” she questioned.

“No, my sister taught me to read,” Skathi explained, “but no one taught me to write.”

Lydia’s widened in shock. Her thane could not dispute the implication. She was full of shame, but it was true. For an adult to not know how to write is infantizing.

“Well, let’s see if we can fix that,” Lydia purposed.

She went over to the Riverwood Trader. A minute later, she came back with paper, charcoal, ink and a quill. She sat down next to Skathi and wrote down the alphabet at the top of the page. Her thane knew what each of them were; she just lacked the knowledge of how to use it. She then wrote several variations of Wolf-Runner and showed them to Skathi.

“Which one of these is your family name?” Lydia asked. Her thane pointed at the top one. “I should’ve guessed.” She then handed an inked quill and a piece of paper. “Now, how do you spell your name?” she asked.

Skathi was about to write something, but she once again could not visualize it. She tried to remember the sounds each letter makes but could not be sure. She knew how to spell a few things, but they were simple or inappropriate. She tried writing something, though it seemed a little off. She showed it to her housecarl.

“Scaty?” Lydia questioned.

Skathi kicked the ground and tried again.

“Scechy?”

And again.

“Skiri?”

And again.

“Fuck!” Skathi shouted.

“Language!” Gerdur barked from the mill.

“Fuck,” Skathi whispered.

Lydia sighed. She took a piece of paper and began writing. Her thane was so humiliated she could not spell her own name, out of all things. If it was ‘jarl’ or ‘Skyrim’, she would still feel shameful, but this is something everyone learns before anything else. If you could not spell your own name, you could not spell at all.

“Is this it?” Lydia inquired, showing her work.

After a moment, Skathi said yes.

“Write it out for me,” her housecarl requested.

She wrote it out on her own paper. If only to show she could spell, she picked somethings to write that she did know as well. They were, “Jarl, Skyrim, king, Kili, dog, Sigi, Agata, trade, milk, bread, cheese, west, sword, fur, rock, fire, water, girl, boy, love, home, puppy, meat, blood.” Lydia looked it over.

“You didn’t need to spell this other stuff,” she stated, “All I wanted is for you to write your name.”

“I know,” Skathi replied, “I just did this for me.”

“Your handwriting is chicken scratch,” Lydia remarked, “But your spelling is spot on.”

Hopefully with some confidence in her thane’s ability, Lydia went left to Whiterun. It all honesty, Skathi was sad to see her go. She needed someone to talk to, but what she did not need someone to hold her in such regard. She just wanted someone to know. Just one. If only someone to talk to without any requirements or obligations, she might be able to know what she felt from day to day.

Behind her, she heard the inn’s door open. Looking behind, it was Delphine and Esbern. They had finished whatever they were talking about. They seemed a little peppier, like the world may be full of horrors, but they had an ally to face it with.

“We’re heading to the Reach, Dragonborn,” Esbern explained, “I’ll show you were.”

The old Blade took out a map and marked a spot in the left-hand corner. Some place called Karthspire. She let them go ahead of her; she wanted to wait a day. She needed some time to rest. After she finished her pie, she decided to cash in that golden claw business. The shopkeeper was ecstatic to have it back and payed her well.

Skathi spent the rest of the day just calming down. Pie is good, but it is not everything. Unfortunately, she could not think of anything calming. For years, she spent every day in the wild trying to survive, never settling on a hobby or whatnot. As such, she could only just wander around town, waiting for nightfall. She would have to look something up.

* * *

The streets of Falkreath knew Stormcloaks quite well over these past few days. The new guards from Ulfric’s warband had taken to watching over the people like they were their own families. Some of them even were, as many Stormcloaks came from all over Skyrim, not just Eastmarch. However, they had become familiar with them for a different reason of late.

Kottir Red-Shoal had returned from his men’s deployment in the Reach. Of the three thousand he had set out with him to claim the hold, the survivors could be counted using only the stars in the thirteen signs. They had met hardy resistance from the hold guard, Legion forces and even the Forsworn. It was clear to anyone who could think that he had failed to secure the Reach.

There were signs it was going to be difficult. The terrain, the sheer size and training of the combined local military forces compared to the Stormcloak size and training, and the experience of the parties involved wouldn’t have matter as much if their commander could lead them. Kottir’s military record was as a reserve soldier, a hold guard officer, and another in the wave of faces at Whiterun. Perhaps offering a chance of glory should’ve included an easier task, like Morthal, not the impenetrable walls of Markarth.

Of course, this was with hindsight’s reminders; everyone thought it was a fair chance to Kottir. Galmar didn’t dispute it, Jeanne didn’t, nobody really thought about the actual the fact he wasn’t a good choice for the assignment, and no one suggested another choice. They really made a mistake and they were dealing with that in their own ways.

Jeanne was drowning her sorrows at the Dead Man’s Drink. Surilie Brothers’ wine was easily available there compared to other regions of Skyrim, given it was a Cyrodiilic drink and they were closest to the province. Here, it came cheaper, and was a far better drink than the Nord mead, so Jeanne preferred it to the local drink. Hangovers were a little better.

By dusk’s edge, Jeanne and the other Stormcloaks had begun drinking after a long day. After reinforcing the holds taken in the past week or so, they needed food and a good drink. They had been in long conversation about the things they saw on patrol. A talking dog, werewolves and even Daedra. Must have been fun, but Jeanne’s position couldn’t allow for that sort of running off into the blue.

Eventually, the conversation came around to the people they wish had joined the rebellion. It started with Thorygg wishing a childhood friend hadn’t gone off to join the Legion, which led to others talking about the people they knew that they would have to fight in this war. But then it descended into a Wishlist of people they wanted to recruit. It was getting ridiculous.

“I’m gonna bet that we’d have the Imperial City if we had the Dragonborn on our side!” one soldier belted.

“Oh, please!” Harling replied, “Ulfric wouldn’t even consider recruiting someone who had better things to do than play war!”

“What is more important our freedom from the Thalmor?” a soldier growled.

“That’s nothing!” Galmar burped, slamming his mug down, “Ulfric tried getting Dagrun Blood-Maiden!”

The crowd was shocked. Jeanne was not, because she didn’t know who in Oblivion that was. “Who in Oblivion is Dagrun Blood-Maiden?” she asked.

The crowd was even more shocked. “You don’t know who Dagrun Blood-Maiden is?” Galmar gasped, “She is the daughter of Kyne, the warrior who fought two thousand Orcs on the eastern border and the greatest legend of today!”

“Looks like we’re going to need to educate our Breton friend!” Harling stated, getting on top of a table, “Bard, lead us in song!”

Before a note could be strung or sung, a rumbling could be heard outside. Jeanne checked the outside to find a host of Stormcloak soldiers going further back than the eye could see. However, you could see the main attraction of the men: Ulfric Stormcloak.

“My Jarl!” Kottir stammered, running to meet him, “Are you here to give us reinforcements?”

Ulfric glared at the commander. “No,” he stated, “I’m here to repair your failure.”

Kottir was confused, but then a swift punch caught him in the gut. “Any who will follow me into battle,” Ulfric declared, “now is the time!”

Jeanne was the first to join him. Then Galmar. Harling, Mikaela, Barisen, Eoni, Heimrand, Mirafang, Ralof and many more joined his party. When they joined the Stormcloaks, they sworn to be his shield siblings and more. They wouldn’t allow him to face this alone, though he wasn’t alone with the thousands he brought. This was the time to fight with him, shield to shield.

With around eight hundred more than when he arrived, had more than enough men to claim Markarth. For now, they made camp, but tomorrow was war. Jeanne caught him before they were lights out.

“So, you appear to have become an officer,” Ulfric remarked.

Jeanne nodded. “Galmar thought it was fitting,” she stated, “They called me the great titles.”

“So, I’ve heard,” the Jarl replied, “Do you know what they called me in the Reach? The Bear of Markarth.” He looked spiteful of the name. “They called me that for the greatest mistake in my life. I fought to free the city from Forsworn occupation with brutality and remorselessness for nothing.”

The tale was known. Jeanne knew it well enough. “Would you have done it without the promise?” she asked.

Ulfric sighed. “Then? No,” he explained, “I was far too focused on reinstating Talos worship that I didn’t see the suffering for what is was. As the man I am today, I would’ve done it. Skyrim cannot suffer because I chose to do nothing.”

That seemed specific. “Is that what this rebellion is?” Jeanne inquired, “A better alternative than doing nothing?”

At first, he was silent. “No,” he stated, “I see the suffering in Skyrim because the Empire cares about the Thalmor than the citizens. The council and the emperor have never been here, never seen the people they rule. All they care about is a treaty, not the need to protect their kin. My Empire died with Martin Septim, theirs is on the verge of death. I will not let them take my home with them.

As serious as this was, Jeanne snickered. Ulfric raised an eyebrow. Jeanne whispered what “verge” meant in Nedic.

“I hate Tamrielic,” he chuckled as his hand met his face, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Jeanne replied.

Tonight, they rest, but tomorrow was war. Stendarr would not save the Legion.

* * *

Time was closing in on Skathi. The Stormcloaks were going to launch another attempt at conquering the Reach soon and would make the roads too dangerous for travel. If she wanted to reach Markarth safely, she was going to move quickly and quietly. Fortunately, that was her natural form.

As she road across the cobblestone paths, she found the remnants of the war. Soldiers in blue, Imperial red and green were spread across this the terrain and roads. So many lost. Was there even a point? Even in thinking about. What purpose was there in taking in these horrors if no one of worth would ever see them? No jarls or kings would look upon this battlefield and say it was not worth what they fought for, not when they hated their enemies too much speak to them. Such waste.

By nightfall, Skathi had reached Markarth without incident, maybe a wolf or two to slow her. Maybe she traveled on a good day. As one who bolted at the sight of Dwemer ruins, she was nervous in the shadow of the converted city. At any moment, a malformed Elf or mechanical monstrosity would jump out and no one would save her as she would bleed to death in the lonesome snow. She could fight most things that came out of a cave, but Dwemer ruins were a far different danger.

“This is Markarth, traveler,” the guard proclaimed with pride, “The safest city in the Reach.”

It did not feel like it.

* * *

There was nothing anyone could do. The Legion, guardsmen and Forsworn were mustered for war, but the Stormcloaks had not arrived yet. They were over two thousand strong, waiting with bated breath for the moment battle began. No one knew when it was, only that it would begin when they crossed the border. There was nothing anyone could do.

The barracks was dead quiet. Rena said nothing, not finding jovial energy in the looming threat of the Stormcloak warband. Everyone around her kept to themselves as well, trying to find something to do. Maybe they were afraid to make friends with those who soon could be dead. That was possible, but maybe they too were gripped with the same awareness that Rena had, knowing the any moment could be the last before war.

That did seem to be something Mariqa could accept. “Legionnaires,” he spoke with a grin, “guess what this one has?”

“An aversion to shirts?” Rena asked. He seemed to prefer not to wear shirts when he didn’t wear armor.

He seemed to understand the joke but wasn’t amused. Out of his pant leg, he pulled a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy. Every eye in the barracks went wide in shock. For one, liquor wasn’t allowed in Legion facilities, so his ability to smuggle it through was amazing. For another, this brandy was rare beyond rare in Skyrim. The fact he even had it was a feat onto itself.

“Dibella’s gifts are not always of the flesh,” he remarked as Legionnaires took brought out cups.

Rena and Ansgar look at each other with a knowing nod. They knew it was against the rules for this brandy to be here. As much cheer as it would bring, it could leave less than formidable soldiers with hangovers in the morning. They knew what they had to do, but it wasn’t desirable.

“Mariqa,” Rena asked, “leave enough for us.”

Damn it all to Oblivion.

The night was full of good cheer, as songs were sung, and good food was snuck into the barracks to go with the drink that bizarrely didn’t seem to end. Tomorrow, they may die, but tonight was a time for hardy celebration of their lives. They would make this night count, for what said they could only dine in Sovngarde?

Eventually, it got very bizarre. Rena found herself face first in her lamb chops. She picked herself up to find the Legionnaires in drunken cheer, falling over their beds. Mariqa, seemingly sober, was observing the madness he had created with a smile on his face. Ansgar was stood on a table, tankard in one hand and his Zweihander in the other, completely slurring his appreciation of the Legionnaires’ sacrifice.

“Thank you for your time,” he burped to an uninterested crowd before stepping off the table and onto someone’s bed.

“You seem to be handling this with grace,” Rena remarked, in the mist of being simultaneously out of energy and still going.

“I’m just as surprised as you,” Ansgar replied, “I can count how many times I’ve gotten drunk on one hand.”

Rena thought that was odd. “That’s weird coming from a man of about thirty years,” she remarked.

“I’m actually twenty-four summers,” he stated in a matter of fact.

It was then Rena had to come to terms with that fact. Not only was Ansgar younger than she thought by well over five years, but he was younger than her. It was one of those moments that liquor makes better or worse and Rena wasn’t sure which it was doing for her. Probably worse.

“I think I was thrown off by your beard,” she speculated, “If we shaved it off, would we find a baby face.”

Ansgar looked offended by the remark. “I think if you shave any man, you’d find a baby face he’s trying to hide,” he stated.

Vorsaz approached, one of the only two sober people in the barracks. She said it was because of her religion that she couldn’t drink liquor made from plants. Mariqa tried to convince her that it wasn’t made from plants, but she knew only Bosmer liquor made that certain. Rena wasn’t sure how you make liquor from anything else, but she was too drunk to think of any possibility.

“How about we shave him and see what’s under there?” the Bosmer suggested.

“Nope!” Ansgar replied, “I like my beard and so does my wife!”

“Oh, there’s no chance that you have a wife!” Rena retorted.

“And what about you?” Ansgar said as he tripped fell onto the bed and fell asleep cold.

Rena wasn’t sure what to do with him, but Vorsaz did. She led the captain to drag his unconscious form to his bed. He was heavy beyond belief, having his steel armor on being only a slight explanation. Rena could only assume all that muscle she saw on him made him heavier than the average man. Then again, she had never dragged a drunk man before or someone as big as Ansgar.

“So, what made you join?” Rena asked without prompt.

Vorsaz thought about it. “Well, it just seemed like a good idea,” she explained, “I left Valenwood because of the religious conflict between Altmer and Bosmer that I wanted nothing to do with. If I ever came back, I wanna be able to say my home is safe from that.”

Rena’s wasn’t anything like that. “I just joined because that’s what Imperials my age did,” she explained, “Now I feel stupid for having a dull reason.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Vorsaz comforted, “I think Ansgar just joined because it meant he could legally have the chance to kill Ulfric.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Rena remarked.

The two plopped Ansgar onto his bed, but it looked like Vorsaz wasn’t done with him. She put a finger to her mouth as a sign to be quiet. When she tip-toed off, Rena assumed she was going to get shaving cream and a razor. That was such a bad idea, even a drunk woman could see that.

But as Vorsaz made her seventh step, her body language changed. It was though a lever was pulled and her mischievous behavior dropped to a state of base existence. She droned over to her bed, tucked herself under the covers and fell asleep instantly.  
A still seemingly sober Mariqa appeared behind Rena. “I wouldn’t worry about her bad ideas,” he remarked, “She’ll get hers.”

However, before Rena could say a thing, she realized that she should probably lay down before she falls over. She slumped over to her bed before she passed out onto the sheets.

* * *

That night, sleep seemed unnatural. Something was keeping Skathi awake. She darkened the candles in her room, soften her bed as much as it was possible with stone, even tried keeping outside noises away, but still could find no rest. She had slept on graven from before midnight to dawn but could not find even a minute on flat stone.

Instead, she tried to meditate. She remembered the calm of High Hrothgar, let it inform her tranquility. Only then was it clear what was happening. Something was summoning her. Someone wanted her to go somewhere. She was not one to sacrifice sleep for boldness.

It was midnight. Armor clad, Skathi walked with a hand on her sheathed dagger through the streets. The city’s streams and waterfalls had slowed. The buildings hovered over her, watching, clouding the night sky. The few fires of torches and the forge kept the blackness at bay but did not keep the cold out.

And then the keep. She needed to go to the keep. Call it a hunch or magics, she knew this summons wanted her there.

The guards did not stop her as she approached it. She went passed the waterfalls so calming to the brass gate and opened it. No one stopped her from roaming the keep. No one kept her from spotting the priest.  
“If it’s about the Hall of the Dead, no, you can’t go in there,” he stated as Skathi approached him.

“Why not?”

“I can’t talk about it,” the priest explained, “Rest assure, the Jarl hears everyone’s concerns. You will be able to visit the dead soon.”

She wanted in. “I could help if you told me.”

“All right. I was going to suggest the Jarl hire someone to sort this mess out, anyway,” he remarked. “We’ve discovered that some of the dead have been,” he paused in disgust, “eaten. Flesh has been chewed off; bones were snapped to get at the marrow inside. We haven’t caught anyone or anything yet. It’s like it knows when I’m there.”

A strange speculation. Perhaps it was someone that began roosting in the Hall. Skathi was unsure of where this idea came from. Nor was she sure why she was so drawn to this place. A piece of her knew. A dark place that she never seen in years.  
The priest collected himself. “If you can get to the bottom of this, the Priesthood of Arkay will reward you,” he explained, “Take my key, and be careful.”

The priest gave Skathi a key and enter the Hall. She took in the death around her, ancient and decaying. Cobwebs and withering bodies stunk up the catacombs. They suffocated the air. But there was something strangely intoxication about the death. Where did this come from?

And then, a voice.

“Not many would walk into a crypt, smelling steel and blood, but not fear.”

True. She felt no fear at this death. She understood that she would die, and this only reminded her of that.

“I feel the hunger inside you. Gnawing at you. You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls.”

Untrue. One does not eat the withered remains of the dead. One eats it when it is fresh. Where did that come from?

Passed the webs and coffins, she saw candlelight in an alcove. It held a shrine to Arkay, the god of death and birth. This was not surprising; graveyards and halls of the dead always had a shrine. Why did she know this? She approached the shrine and would receive the blessing, if not for fear.

“It’s all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten.”

Who was this? She drew her sword and stood on guard. She pointed her blade at every corner the alcove allowed her. She did not know where her enemy was. She did not know what she defended. All Skathi knew was her name and she was afraid. Then, from the shadows, a woman stepped up the stairs.

“You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren’t you?” she inquired.

“Get back!” Skathi barked.

The woman continued to climb. She was unafraid of the outsider. In contrast, Skathi was terrified. As she spoke, something came back. Something wretched and shameful. The taste of human flesh, warm and raw from a fresh kill. How did this woman know?  
“Someone came to steal your sister and you had to get rid of the body,” the woman pressed, “You couldn’t think of anything else. Besides, what’s the harm with just one bite?”

True. The jarl’s steward lusted after her sister, want her body for his own. When he came to take her away, he had mercenaries, but they were too slow. When he was throwing her onto a carriage to Riften, Skathi ran at the bastard, stole his dagger and drove it through his throat while his hired help just looked. Without any knowledge of how to get rid of his body, she tried to eat it. She was barely through the first mouthful when the guards came upon the scene. Afraid of being caught, she ran, and she’s kept running since.

But that did not make this woman a friend. Skathi held her blade, shaking in fear.

“It’s okay, now,” the woman cooed, “You’ve found a friend who understands you. You can let go of your guilt.”

That implied she does not deserve punishment for what she did. She tried to make sure not an inch of her soul could be given over to this. But why when she already had a mile? Her fear and rage left her for a feeling of indifference and her blade fell from her hand. Good thing too; the woman was close to touching her. Might have killed her.

“What do you want?” she asked without emotion in her voice.

“Nothing,” the woman replied, “Namira, the Lady of Decay, accepts you for what you are. She has a place for us, where we can sate our appetites without judgement.”

“And are you Namira?” Skathi asked.

“Oh, no,” the woman corrected, spooked by the implication, “I would not be so bold as to claim so. I’m Eola, her faithful servant.”

“Alright,” Skathi replied “then where is this place?”

“It’s inside Reachcliff Cave,” Eola explained, “But the dead have stirred from their slumber recently and I was forced here.” She ordered, “Meet me there. We will fight our way to Namira’s embrace together. Until then, tell the people of Markarth that their dead won’t be disturbed anymore. We have bigger plans ahead.”

And then she disappeared. What monster had she discovered?


	14. Chapter 14

Skathi could not believe herself. Last night’s events left her shaken. So, there was a reason she forgot how she killed a man and ate his flesh. When she thought about it, there was good reason she was cast out of Falkreath. That place was famous for its graveyard of heroes from the ages; no one wants that sullied with a cannibal.

None of that kept her from riding out to Reachcliff Cave. It was a strange compulsion, almost beyond her control. She could not believe she was going to eat someone. Whatever laid at the end of this was closure, no matter how it came about. She prayed this would not lead her down the wrong path.

To the road just ahead of her, Skathi could see the Stormcloak army marching on. The battle was soon or else they would not be here. She hoped they were not doomed to die in retched display, that they could go home and hold their families again. May Stendarr show mercy, Kynareth guide them and Arkay save them from Oblivion.

And her.

As she approached the cave, she found a small party at the entrance. Other cannibals, she supposed. One of them was a butcher she had seen in the market, raising some disturbing implications. Another was a dog breeder she had seen by the stables, raising even more implications. The last were a woman she did not recognize, two High Elf sorcerers and Eola.

“You’ve come,” Eola greeted, “The draugr infesting Namira’s sanctuary are inside.”

So that’s what the undead were called. Last time Skathi fought them, she had a housecarl to stand behind her, the one before being with an Imperial Legionnaire.

“I could use a hand,” she asked.

“I was hoping you would say that,” Eola smiled like a cat.

The drew their blades and entered the cave.

* * *

Rena awoke with a hangover and orders. The Stormcloak warband had crossed the border. Two thousand soldiers in all, a fifth of what they should be. Legate Admand awoke all Legion forces and the Forsworn host and had them march to meet them on the field of combat. The final battle for the Reach was at hand.

The regiment marched on the roads, the Forsworn were encouraged to disperse so they could ambush the Stormcloaks. Rena tried to tell herself this wouldn’t end the same way as always. The two battles she fought were in fortified cities, one ended in defeat and the other in victory. This was the field of battle, somewhat equal chance to see the quality of each sides’ soldiers.

It was all so terrifying. She had fought in Helgen, the Rift, Whiterun and Markarth and this was the battle she wasn’t sure about. She fought against dragons and Stormcloaks before, but this was different. No battle before was a test of warcraft like this. It was just walking onward to a certain end. It was terrifying.

Marching around the bends for the road and valleys, they made a lot of noise. All the steel armor and weapons and footsteps mashed together to make a regular sound that would tell anyone that an army was on the move. So, it was true terror when Rena noticed it was getting louder.

And louder.

And louder.

When the Legionnaires turned the corner, they found the Stormcloaks forming a shield wall. Rena called for box formation just as a volley cut through the air. The arrows didn’t pierce but instead were just a warning as another volley went straight at the front lines. They did pierce the shield barriers and they fell, shrinking the box. And they kept loosing arrows into the Legion ranks as fast as they could.

Rena knew they couldn’t keep this up, neither side. They’d run out of soldiers before they were safe from arrows. But the Stormcloaks were also loosing their arrows too fast, meaning they were going to strain their bows and would break before long. They could wait, but it was far too foolish to test their bow’s construction against their headcount.

“Archers, battlemages!” she ordered, “Rain fire and death upon them!”

The Imperial archers sent a volley into the loose ranks of the Stormcloaks’ and many were caught on arrows. The Legion shields gave way to battlemages that sent fireballs and lightning against the wooden shields of their opposition. Ulfric’s resistance to embracing wizards as frontline war machines would cost him many men before the day was over.

The Stormcloak shield wall broke and they began to swarm the Legion ranks. Their swords were mostly ineffective against the formation, but the Imperials’ were not so unlucky. They found purchase against their cuirasses and necks, but that was not to say they weren’t chipping at the Legion lines.

“Ulfric’s head is forfeit!”

From the ridge came the host of Forsworn warriors that fell into the Stormcloak lines and tore their young men apart. Amongst them was Ansgar, having split off to make the most of his horse’s ability on the rocks. He swooped down and began smashing blue paint shields like logs against and an axe. If the Stormcloak’s defeat was at all in question, this would put an answer to it: yes.

But something didn’t make sense to Rena. Ulfric fought here before. He must have known every trick to fighting Forsworn, fighting in the Reach. And surely the two victories beforehand weren’t a fluke. There had to be something else. If there wasn’t, where was the Bear the Markarth?

But then it hit her. Ulfric had to have more men. And there was more than one road to Markarth. He could easily have another thousand past their patrols and been at the city by now. As much as it may or may not, she had to check. There weren’t enough in the city guard to defend against an attack.

“Company!” Rena ordered, “Prepare to move out!”

Legate Admand rode up on his horse. “Captain, what are you doing?” he barked.

“Legate, I don’t think this is Ulfric’s full force,” she explained.

Before another word could escape anyone’s lips, an arrow struck Admand in the chest and he fell from his horse. Only the briefest glance told her it was no Nord or Imperial arrow. She looked around and the Forsworn had turned away from the Stormcloaks and were attacking the Legion lines.

“For Madanach, the King in Rags!” Wulded bellowed.

The Forsworn charged into the frontlines like madmen and were far and away more effective than the Stormcloaks. They fought without armor to weight them down and had a sword in each hand, swinging them together and spinning around to become a hurricane of blades. Some could be slain easy, men with what was said to have a briar heart in their chest would take a sword like it was nothing more than the wind.

Rena had lost sight of Ansgar. She may not have agreed with him on many things, but his strength with a blade might have carried them through the battle. If the briar heart warriors had gotten to him, then they couldn’t slay these animals.

And then one found Rena. She raised her shield, but the warrior spun, and it was flung out of her hand. Two Legionnaires tried to stand in his way, but he took their blades as they couldn’t in their steel armor. He was about to bring his spiked blade to her throat, but a mighty blade made it through his open chest, and he fell, dead.

“I found out how to kill these Briarhearts,” Ansgar stated, cover in blood and stood a little shorter than normal.

“Ansgar, the Stormcloaks might be using this as a diversion,” Rena stated, “The bulk of their forces might be on another road.”

“Yeah, we should’ve just stayed within the walls,” Ansgar replied, “Go, take our companies and secure Markarth. I’ll cover your retreat.”

Ansgar raised his mighty blade and cut down a Forsworn as she came at him. Rena called another retreat and around a hundred and fifty soldiers followed her initiative. The chaos of the battle left its end uncertain, but much blood would be spilled in her absence. She only hoped that in the end, Ulfric would not take the city if she left. She prayed to Julianos that she was not mistaken, or the battle may be lost.

* * *

Ulfric had a solid plan; Jeanne could say that much. The Stormcloaks couldn’t take the combined efforts of the experienced Legion and Forsworn forces, not with the fresh soldiers they had. So, he chose to split his forces. A host would go the southern road and take the brunt of the Legion’s defenses, while the other half would take the northern road straight to Markarth. This is most likely how he survived this long.

That didn’t mean it would be easy. The northern road was far more populated than the southern road. While it was a priority not to be seen, that wasn’t as important as making sure no one could warn the Legion. Scouts or patrols were to be dealt with quickly by the closest twenty soldiers to their position. While they marched on the road, no civilian dared cross their path.

When they stood on the verge of Markarth dale, Ulfric sent Mikaela and other guerillas to open the gate. From his experience in the city, there was a hidden passageway that led to the gatehouse. Jeanne got the impression he knew this place better than the hundreds of Jarls and captains that claimed to protect this city. A dangerous enemy, she supposed, to have.

They waited four minutes and they could hear the gate fling open. Ulfric stood toward his men, called to charge, and the fifteen hundred and more charged into the dale, beholding the Dwarven ruins called a city that was awaiting their blades. The battle began.  
The city guards stood in a shield wall at the gate, but Stormcloak hammermen ran ahead of the rest and broke their wooden defenses. The Markarth regulars fought with swords in hand, but there were too many and their position would fall soon. Oh, they gave such an end that was worthy of Sovngarde.

Once the path was clear, the Stormcloaks scattered to the streets to secure the city. But something was wrong. Jeanne could feel something was far too easy about this. The Legion was occupied, yes, and the hold guards were no matched for their tactics unorthodox and overwhelming, but there was something else. Like at any moment, a thousand bandits could jump out of the shadows and stabbed them.

And damn them to Coldharbour if that didn’t happen.

“Behead the bear!”

From windows and alleys came a swarm of irregular soldiers in steel and leather armor immediately struck the Stormcloak lines. They moved too fast for their shield arms to block their blades. It was as though Hircine had declared them prey. Jeanne knew not where they came from, nor where they learned how to strike like a torrent, but it would be far too much a challenge to learn now.

Of course, shield walls were formed, but over a hundred dead weren’t saved in time. Jeanne could hear their blades shredded wood, but it wasn’t so easy to pierce these shields when stack on top of them. Stormcloak blades came out and stabbed the attackers, though not enough.

But while their flanks were taken care of, Jeanne could see a glaring disadvantage; there weren’t enough shields for their heads. That was so obvious, it wasn’t a surprise when arrows began raining down upon them. They tried to meet them with their archers, but there were far too many targets.

It seemed the battle was surely lost, but Ulfric wouldn’t be so easily broken. He gave a shout in some language unfamiliar to all who could hear it and the archers above them dropped their bows like they were burning elements. They were much easier to pick of without those.

“Soldiers!” Ulfric ordered, “Stand with me!”

Ulfric, blade in hand, began leading his men to break these attackers’ resistance. Hammermen pushed these lean swordsmen apart and were no match for their axes. Jeanne herself began setting them alight. Perhaps if they couldn’t win this battle, they could give their foes a black eye.

The warband began pushing for the keep, even though that was where the greatest resistance was. Ulfric shouted again the they were flung apart. Perhaps it wasn’t so unlikely that he slew Dead King Torygg with his voice, Jeanne considered. She would have to see if that would make the duel illegitimate, seeing as he had won with that little trick.

Soon enough, the warband was surrounded. Behind them were far too many soldiers to count or distinguish. Ahead of them, not much better. If they did push further, it would surely kill them, but retreat was going to be even harder. Jeanne’s father taught her that the most casualties in a battle would be in a rout. If that didn’t happen, she didn’t know if they would even have the option.

“Ulfric!” Jeanne called, “We can’t fight forever! We need to retreat!”

“No! Not here!” he barked back.

“My Jarl, even if we win this day, we won’t have the numbers to hold the city!” Jeanne explained, desperate. They hadn’t the ability to win the city and him being here jeopardized the entire rebellion.

“I won’t let it fail to anyone but me!” he proclaimed.

But then he fell. His eyes shot wide in shock and pain and he fell over. All along his back were arrows, riddling him to no end. Jeanne spotted where they came from and threw a fireball at them, which disbursed them. From there, she picked Ulfric up and threw him over her shoulder. It was cumbersome, given her height and his weight, but it was better than just leaving him there.

“Protect your king!” she ordered.

The Stormcloak ranks surrounded her and the light was blotted out by the shields. Now was the time to decide the fate of the battle. Jeanne knew there was no way out of this battle that didn’t end with the city returning to the Empire’s regime. They lost too many soldiers to hold the city, and they would lose even more in a retreat. She was damned if she stayed this course and damned if she chose to break from it.

Then damn it all. Jeanne knew that the pressure would influence her decision in some way, but that’s what it’s there for. If she could throw away all these soldiers’ lives like they were numbers, she had no doubt she would, but she knew too many of the people here to truly consider them tools to be used and thrown away when they broke. Ulfric would surely punish her for this, but there was one lesson her parents taught her that she didn’t pay attention.

No matter what you do, whether it’s for glory or not, make sure it’s worthy. It won’t matter to anyone else but you if you make the right decision. Jeanne hoped that was true, even in retreat.

* * *

Rena found her legs were worn from travel. She had spent the entire day on her feet, marching from morning to past noon, stood in the battle to command and was trying to make it back to Markarth in time. All that time was like the flames of Deadlands on her legs and she sworn she’d spend a week in bed after all this. They could dock her pay and she wouldn’t care.

The Legionnaires behind her would surely join her. Not only had the march worn them, but the battle had given them all the reason they need for nightmares. So many of them, young to everything, now forever impacted by what life had to offer them for their choices. They may not find their rest kind on them, as it surely wasn’t kind on her.

When Rena’s soldiers reached the shadow of Markarth, they found the city in flames and the gate wide open. There was no sign of another battle in the field, no sign that there had been a struggle. It all reeked of one thing: betrayal. Rena made a silent vow that, whoever it was, she would kill the traitor and hang his body from the walls as a warning to any who shared his sentiment.

When arrows fell on their heads, the Legionnaires raised shields, but did no slow. They needed to enter the city. They suffered the volleys from the gate house, it being clear that the Stormcloaks had taken this much. They lost a few soldiers, but returned in kind, letting their blue clad bodies fall on their shields.

When they entered the city, they saw a strange battle. The Stormcloaks, numerous and overwhelming, were surrounded by not only the city guard, but also numerous warriors of no clear alignment. It was though they were sellswords that sprang out from the ground and started fighting for the city, but Rena recalled nothing regarding the jarl or anyone else hiring them. For now, it was enough to have allies.

“For Markarth!” Rena cried, “For the Reach, and for Skyrim!”

And the Legionnaires joined the battle. The Stormcloaks were beyond count, without a single soldier being fallen for long until nine more crawled out the stonework. There could be the entire Stormcloak warband in this city and Rena would have to believe, were it not for the two hundred she left for Ansgar to deal with. They fought from building to building, but that wasn’t enough to contain them.

It felt as though Rena were just a fly picking away at Mehrunes Dagon’s ankle. It was pointless for the such a small creature to even bother with something bigger and more powerful like a Daedric prince. But even a fly knows its part. Even a fly knows that it is better to fight this than let the battle be won by the enemy of everything it holds dear. Rena admitted that was a bad example, as Ulfric was unlikely to storm the Imperial City, but the principle was sound.

She would not let this battle be won by Ulfric. She had lost too many times to let the Reach be another mark on her record, another weight on her soul. The dead souls left to Arkay’s stewardship, may she find herself there before anyone else, but the Stormcloak warband.

Even the greatest Giant would fall by mortal hand if it were persistent enough, fast enough and strong enough. The Stormcloaks would fall soon enough, if she could find an end to their host. She looked over the crowd and saw an endless swarm of soldiers, no knowledge of when they would end. A fresh corpse at her side, she raised her shield and sword and bolted into the enemy lines.

Something Rena found an easy trick to use in the streets. The Stormcloak ranks were too large to move with easy. If one tripped, they would be surely dead by ten others that stepped on top of him. Her plan was to force the Stormcloaks into a corner. They may have far more soldiers, but that could easily be exploited by anyone who knew how.

Rena had the Legionnaires raise shields, back up into an ally and let the street fill up with Stormcloaks. Then she would have her soldiers force them down walkways of the ancient city. She found a path to the forge works, where there was a massive watercourse. She forced the massive host into the water and let the currents push them away into a grate, crushing them.

As the horizon warmed with the signs of night, the Stormcloaks began to retreat. Rena joined the city guard and sellswords in encouraging them out with a shield wall and archers. She stepped over many bodies whose lives were the payment for the Stormcloaks’ arrogance. It was hard fought, but Ulfric’s warband was thrown out into the yard and archers on the walls volleyed into their ranks.

It was over. The battle for Markarth was over. Behind the defenders was bodies of thousands of souls who would rest in whatever realm awaited them upon death. Stormcloaks, Legionnaires or sellswords, they were all amongst the ranks of the dead. Rena prayed Arkay would take them home to rest in their lands of peace in Sovngarde, Hircine’s hunting grounds, Moonshadow or anywhere else that accepted good souls.

Rena stride over the fallen as they were taken by the priests, careful not to desecrate their bodies. She made her way to Understone Keep, where she found Jarl Igmund, Faleen, Thonar and the steward, Raerek, with an entourage of guards. They seemed to have watched the battle unfold, if only the end of it.

“Captain, where is your commander?” Jarl Igmund inquired. He seemed annoyed by the Legates absence.

“Locked in battle,” Rena explained, “He was struck by an arrow and he’s still on the frontline.” Igmund impatiently scowled. “Are you waiting for him?” the captain asked.

“There’s a matter we need to discuss,” Igmund stated and nothing more.

Rena figured there was only so many topics there could be. “If you’re looking for how the Stormcloaks got it, it’s clearly a traitor’s hand,” she remarked.

“If you refer to the gate opening to them, it wasn’t a by traitor’s hand,” Faleen stated, “Ulfric knew there was a path into the gatehouse from the outside.”

“But a traitor still stands,” Igmund interjected, looking at Raerek, “One that gave information to our enemy.”

So, this was the traitor. “I swore to take the traitor’s head,” Rena stated, drawing her sword, “and I will.”

Thonar held her back as she approached him. “You’ll get him if we decide that,” he stated, “But we need you to get Legate Admand first.”

And so, Rena mounted up with an entourage and rode to the frontline. She would have the traitor’s head.

* * *

The resulting battle against the dead took some time. The draugr were difficult opponents, more powerful than any Skathi had fought before. Perhaps their strength is why Eola’s cult were forced out, though the cannibal implied they tasted terrible, so maybe that had something to do with it.

Still, few could stand against the Dovahkiin. It was strange. She seemed to have a unique ability to slay the dead without magics. Eola had to use fire to slay them. Eventually, they reached the end of the cave.

They came upon a strange chamber. It was much like the tombs Skathi had been to, but at the center was a table meant to hold a feast from days old. Yet that was not the most unnerving part of it. At the focal point of the room was an alien altar, spiked and winged at first, but it revealed more frightening imagery the further one looked.

“You’ve done it. The shrine is ours again,” Eola proclaimed, “Now, we need to prepare a grand feast to welcome you into Namira’s coven.”

A feast. That meant flesh. Skathi felt strange at this. One part of her was tempted to taste it again, but the other was horrified. The memory of its flavor was unclear. To refresh it was both intoxicating and disgusting. Her mouth was filling with fluid, but whether it was the sign of vomit to come or salivation, she could not say.

“You’ll have the honor of killing the main course,” Eola grinned, “And I know the perfect person.”

“Who is it?” Skathi asked, as afraid she was of the answer.

“You’ll see,” the cannibal answered, “I have someone hunting for him.”

The hall soon filled with the coven. They brought cheeses, bread and meats of unknown origin. They nibbled, waiting for the main course. Skathi barely made conversation with them. When they asked why she was not eating any of the meats, she excused herself by saying she wanted to save herself for the main course, too afraid to tell them she was nervous about any of it.

Skathi could not relate to the other cannibals at the table with her. They each had reasons for why they ate flesh, but they were all terrible. Their ‘first meals’ were murdered, not killed to protect someone. Her one lapse in judgement looked logical compared to their madness. Why was she still here, except to relive the taste again?

The appetizers were almost through when the main course arrived. A Bosmer in Legion armor led the familiar priest of Arkay into the chamber. Upon the sight of this, he almost drew his blade, but Eola coaxed him into submission. Was that what gave her these desires, these memories? Was this woman using Namira’s magics to hypnotize people into thinking they were cannibals and make them so? Was that it?

Eola led the priest to the altar and signaled for Skathi to follow. This was it. She would kill the man and eat his flesh. But could she?

As the priest laid on the altar, Eola whispered to Skathi, “The meal is on Namira’s table. Go ahead. Carve.”

Without thinking, the outsider took out her dagger, this gift of Nord heroes and stained it with the blood of a priest. She looked on his now lifeless corpse. What was she doing? Eola told her to take the first bite. It was a bitter meat, no sweetness or strength. At the taste of this, Skathi went into a rage.

When she awoke, the holy man’s blood stained her mouth, his body half eaten. The coven was dead, she could find most of their bodies scattered throughout the dining hall. She had done this; the blood on her armor said as much. She was overcome with horror at the sight of this. In her hand, there was a bloodstained sword and a ring on her finger.

“Mortal,” a voice from the shrine echoed, “I am Namira, the Lady of Decay. Your consumption of the blood and bile of Arkay’s own is pleasing to me.”

She still murdered him.

“I give you my ring. Wear it, and when you feast on the flesh of the dead, I will grant you my power.”

And Skathi ran, like had so long ago, ashamed. However, unlike before, she was not running to save her life. She was running to find someone to kill her.

As she ran out the cave, she tripped and fell. She cried for what she had done, in pain and horror. She was not worthy of the powers and life she had been given. Of all those in this world who could have been Dragonborn, she did not deserve it. She was foolish to think she was.

Her mouth full of dirt stained with her tears, the wretched taste of flesh persisted. Her body gagged and threw up what she had eaten of the priest. It was painful, but practically apple pie compared to everything else. But then she stopped. She was not empty, like when she vomited other times. On her hand, the ring began heating up until it turned to molten metal and burned her finger and she screamed. When it was off her hand, all that was left was a band of burnt flesh around her finger.

And then another voice. “Get up and walk.”

This one was like the wind, the earth, river and fire in one breath. Skathi was compelled to obey and walked all the way toward the river. She tossed her bloodstained blades aside and threw off her sullied armor. And then she bathed in wild water. When she emerged, she felt cleaner than she ever been before.

Skathi asked herself who this was. She was answered with a hand on her face, invisible as the wind.

“I won’t let you fail yourself, Skathi,” the voice proclaimed, “I love you too much.”

The nothingness gave way to a woman of nature. Antlers wreathed her storm cloud gray hair that sprouted from her skin as dark was fertile soil. She wore fine armor as fluid as water over robes like autumn leaves. On her face was crowned eyes with irises of fire. If she was anything less than Kynareth, she would not believe it.

“Go, the world needs you.”

And she faded away. It had been so long since she cried tears of joy, maybe never. She believed she could still be the Dragonborn.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Rena to reach the healers’ camp. She could thank the Forsworn for leaving the Stormcloak camp intact enough to use like this, with some refurbishment. That was the only thing she would thank the Forsworn for, as she would think a fair amount of the wounded here were their doing.

Healers ran around, checking one patient, believing they had it the worst, but they had been brought to the surgeon’s tent or were yet to be diagnosed. Their restoration spells were fine at encouraging the wounds to heal, but their magicka was finite, and potions to rejuvenate them had side effects. It was a familiar sight, but that’s what made it hurt.

Rena found that Ansgar was there but had no serious injuries. He was sat outside the recovery tent, leaning on his Zweihander and covered in blood. Beside him was Mariqa, his fur and steel plate equally drenched. Now to think of it, Rena was probably covered in gore from the battle before, but hadn’t noticed with all the excitement, as terrible it is to describe it that way.

“I’ll assume Legate Admand is in the tent,” Rena stated.

“He is,” Ansgar confirmed, “The arrow was poisoned, but some minor thing the mages could deal with.”

“Was he one of the lucky ones?” the Imperial captain inquired.

The Nord nodded. “How many have you lost at Markarth?” he asked.

“Six.”  
“Then, we’re only down to seven-hundred and ninety-three,” he sighed, “The Forsworn and Stormcloaks did their damage and now the regiment is barely two battalions.”  
Rena silently cursed. The way they were losing soldiers in this war was always fast, and this was a better than before, but it was still a blow. It meant that they couldn’t defend the Reach effectively. Held in Markarth, maybe, but not patrolling the roads or holding the borders. Fort Sungard was probably in taken, as no word reached them in days. If the Stormcloaks came back, they could take the hold.

“I’m here to escort the Legate to Understone Keep,” Rena stated.

“Yeah, he’s probably good to go,” Ansgar remarked and he picked himself up.

The two captains entered the recovery tent and were met with a wretched stench. The wounds were treated, all they need was to rest, but this stench was far more than anything their injuries could make. It was like they entered a chamber pot. A glance down at the floor revealed buckets filling with piss and shit that had yet to be taken out.

“Nurse!” Rena called.

A slightly stressed looking mage ran up to them. “Who died now?” he asked in a broken voice.

“Don’t you think you should empty the chamber pots?” Rena inquired.

The mage nodded. “Right.” And he started carrying the buckets out and throwing their contents off the cliff. There was probably a traveler or two that was less than amused.

The captains looked over the beds of patients. Their pain varied from soldier to soldier, looking as though they fought the pain to even sleep. Rena cursed Ulfric that this was nothing new to her. They found Legate Admand on one bed, unarmored and reading a book. He seemed to recover fine.

“Legate,” Rena spoke, “I’m here to escort you to Understone Keep.”

He nodded. “Yup, that make sense,” he remarked, “I’ll head over now.”

As he picked himself up, Rena asked, “Do you think you’re strong enough to ride?”

“It was an arrow to the chest,” he stated as he put on his armor, “I’ve taken a lot of those in my life and I’ve been just fine after each one, poison or not.”

Legate Admand carefully mounted his horse, still affected by the arrow, and rode to Markarth. When they arrived, they found bodies of Stormcloaks dragged out and burned in piles. They found people that went around, terrified by the idea they lost someone. Rena’s heart went out for them, but she didn’t know if she could help. This war needed to end.

Admand entered Understone keep, but Rena was kept from entering. She supposed that made sense, as she vowed to kill Raerek for his traitorous actions. She waited outside, sharpening her sword. When Admand came back out, the jarl’s entourage was with him and they led the steward by a rope.

The Legate nodded. Rena smiled.

To a crowd of those who survived the battle, Rena wore an execution’s hood and robes with a headsman’s axe in hand. With Raerek on the block, she brought her axe through his neck and his head rolled down the stairs to roaring applause. They wanted the traitor dead. She wrapped his dead body in ropes and dragged it to the top of the wall, secure the other end to a beam, and threw him off the other side. To any who entered the city, they would see an example of betraying the Legion and Markarth.

As she vowed.

* * *

The fog was thick, near unending to the naked eye. This was a good thing, as it hid their approach. No clue as to why the lighthouse wasn’t working, but it only meant they could reach Dawnstar with an element of surprise. With this battle, the tide of the war could easily turn in their favor. This was the Legion opportunity to show their quality to their Emperor.

The fleet lasted longer than their eyes’ ability to pierce the fog. Around half of General Tullius’s forces were packed in the vessels to the point of bursting. While it was ill-advised to sail the northern waters of Skyrim, they needed to so the hold guard wouldn’t see them coming. While the defenders lacked their numbers, the Legion offensive was built to be brutally fast. Their Jarl would be given no quarter.

Eventually, the fog came to an end and Dawnstar was in the Legion’s view. Upon seeing the smaller city, Ravani nocked her bow. She had joined the offensive to make bring the fight to Ulfric, just as she wanted. If he wouldn’t accept that they needed to end the war and focus on more important things, she would make sure his cause would fail.

Along with Ravani, the two thousand archers maybe more of the fleet nocked their bows and awaited the order to let them loose. Then the legate gave the order.

“Light your arrows!”

Fire arrows, eh? Well, Ravani and the other archers obeyed and gently lit their arrowheads and awaited his order. When he called it, a volley bright enough to burn the entire fleet to ashes was loosed into the air, creating a constellation of orange stars. Oh, what the locals must have thought as they came upon the city. While not every arrow met dry light, it was enough to send a warning: The Legion had come.

Oars extended from the Imperial vessel and pushed the fleet faster forward. Ravani nocked another arrow, as did the other archers, but didn’t light them out of the desire not complete burn the city down. They met the city again, but Ravani couldn’t help but think this was cruel. The people of Dawnstar awoke to find their homes ablaze and were now met with a killing arrow. As such, she held her arrows until she spotted a target.

The fleet was too large for the docks, so many ships would land on the beach for the sake of speed. Ravani was at the docks and cut down a pale clad hold guard as they tried to meet the Legion’s numbers. The host burst out of the vessels with and Ravani was almost caught in the rush, but she’d learned how painful that could be and stood out of the way. The Legion was here.

Ravani led some of the archers to the side to begin loosing arrows into the hold guards’ ranks. Their lack of numbers would be their undoing. Of course, perhaps the Legion’s size would be unwieldy in the close quarters of Dawnstar and the experienced hold guard would be able to make their stand with ease. It was difficult to say, but the thousands of Legionnaires did present a challenge to the five hundred men of the Jarl.

Speaking of which, the old man, Jarl Skald the Elder, was spotted leaving his keep. He had armor on but made no show of his presence. Whether this was cowardice, or a humble submission was not immediately obvious, but Ravani would still go after him. She loosed an arrow in his direction and it landed in a post next to his head. That got his attention.

Through the crowd and chaos that was the battle, Ravani cut through with Skald the Elder in her sights. She would have his head if nothing else. Guards tried to stop her, but she ran around them, over them and dodged every blade in her path. She had grown up in place where you couldn’t let yourself be caught and Ravani was specialized in this regard.

Eventually, the Elder was before her, half a dozen guards between the two. They tried to stop her, but she avoided their blades and let their heads fall off their bodies when her sword met their necks. Then there was Skald to finish, so she charged him to put a blade to his neck hidden only by his white beard, then a shield bashed her aside and she fell on the ground. Another guard, but still not too difficult.

This guard was difficult though. When Ravani tried to take his head, he blocked her on reflex. His axe caught her in the side, leading her to recoil on the ground. The pain was unbearable, but that wasn’t good for him. The angry Ravani took blade to his foot and he backed up. She bolted onto his shield and he could block her body, but not her blade and she caught him in his shoulder. It pierced his mail caused him to drop his shield.

“Stop!”

After all this time, Skald spoke up as Ravani was ready for the killed. “If you want Dawnstar,” he spitefully said, “you have it. It isn’t worth this bloodshed.”

“You surrender?” Ravani recounted through gritted teeth from her wound.

“Yes,” the Elder replied. He turned to his city in flames and announced, “I surrender Dawnstar to the Imperial Legion.” He turned back to Ravani and said, “Are you happy now?”

She wasn’t but didn’t say anything. If he was willing to surrender all this time, then why didn’t he when he saw the fleet approaching? The lives lost could’ve been saved if he had spoken up sooner. Whatever reason he had for this stubborn resolve; it wasn’t worth it. He made Ravani a murderer and she would bury her victims herself.

One of the Legates, Tituleius, caught up with the Dunmer. He had company, including an older woman who didn’t seem to be part of the Legion, though carried herself as such.

“Auxiliary Faren,” Tituleius greeted, “Good to see-. “and he spotted her wound. “By the Eight! You should get that looked at!”

Ravani looked it over. “Probably,” she replied.

“You might have some broken ribs,” the Legate stated.

“Nah, not from that,” the Dunmer remarked, “I drink milk.”

And Ravani left for the healers’ tent. She planned to find any civilian that fell by her arrow and treat them later, but it would be hard with how similar her arrows were to rest of them. She still tasked herself with it.


	15. Chapter 15

Skathi was not privy to why she needed to go to Karthspire. Perhaps if she was in the room while they discussed things and not munching on apple pie, she would know, but that was her botched attempt at a day off. Nothing could change the day’s events, but maybe she could have avoided it if she left the day before. But that was in the past, unchanged by the intentions of one regretful mortal.

On approach to Karthspire, there was a wooden structure connecting the ruins together and a campsite built on top of it all. It was clear someone called it home, but no one was there to say so. Skathi had no clue where they went and road up to Delphine and Esbern at the settlement’s edge.

“Greetings, Dragonborn,” Esbern greeted, “The Forsworn are off at war and won’t be here until we’ve already imbedded ourselves.”

“Good,” the Dragonborn replied, “Now, why are we here?”

“We’re here for Alduin’s Wall,” the old Blade explained, “It was created by the ancient Akaviri Dragonguard, the forerunners of the Blades. One of the lost secrets of the Blades. It’s where they recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return. Part history, part prophecy. Its location was lost for centuries, but I know where it is.” He pointed toward the ruins, “Through there.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Skathi nodded and dismounted.

The three warriors drew their blades and entered the structure. It was quiet with everyone off at war. That was no consolidation for Skathi. It felt strange entering someone’s home when they were not here. Maybe it was just her, as the Blades showed no concern. It felt like the usual occupants would jump out at any moment and try to chase them off.

And then one did. Out from one of the tents, a creature emerged of great disgust. It was ugly, a nose beyond any length that could be considered normal, hair thin and balding, wrinkled skin hung on bare and clawed hands with Magicka at their disposal. It was a Hagraven, a familiar sight to Skathi, who had accidentally fallen into their lairs more than once.

“Intruders!” it screeched, “Get out of my home!”

It threw a fireball at the warriors and they scattered. Skathi sheathed her blade and drew her bow in its stead. In her experience, mages took time between spells and that could be exploited. She ran out from her cover and loosed an arrow at its chest. It did not fall from that, as experience taught her that they could take a hit and still throw spells, though it did hurt.

When she tried to nock another arrow, the Hagraven threw a spike of ice at her arm. Fire could not burn her, but sharp ice still pierced her skin. She recoiled, checking the wound as Delphine charged the creature. The Blade was hit with a fireball, but still her armor did not give. She brought her sword down on its head and burst it in half. Its body fell, dead.

Skathi sat, nursing her wound. The icicle had gone through her arm and an inch was poking out the back. A rough situation, while not as bad as it could be, still worse than usual injuries this spell would do on an arm. Unfortunately, it was not the worst thing she had dealt with today.

Esbern came to the Dragonborn’s aid and applied a healing spell to her arm. He put a piece of leather in her mouth and told her to bite down. She did so, knowing this method all too well. He pulled the icicle out from her skin and she focused her pain into biting the leather. With the ice out, the spell could do its work.

Once Skathi had recovered, they began to search for Sky Haven Temple.

* * *

After a long and treacherous journey through traps and puzzles, the warriors came upon a dead end. It was a courtyard, open to the elements, but no further into the temple. Where a door would be, there was a sculpted head like door and a several circled wheel in few feet in front of it. Where else was there to go?

“Wonderful! Remarkably well preserved, too,” Esbern exclaimed at the sight of the wheel. What was he up to?

Stood over the wheel, he explained, “Here's the ‘blood seal.’ Another of the lost Akaviri arts. No doubt triggered by, well, blood. Your blood, Dragonborn.”

He continued, looking at the head, “Look here! You see how the ancient Blades revered Reman Cyrodiil. This whole place appears to be a shrine to Reman. He ended the Akaviri invasion under mysterious circumstances, you recall. After the so-called ‘battle’ of Pale Pass, the Akaviri went into his service. This was the foundation stone of the Second Empire.”

Skathi was little hesitant to use the blood seal. She might be the only one who could use it, but she had gotten sick of blood today and nothing could comfort her for piercing her flesh. Reluctantly, she still drew her dagger and let blood fall onto the wheel. She whined at the fresh wound, quietly as she had little energy left.

A light emerged from the blood seal. It grew and covered the entire wheel. As Skathi shielded her eyes, the sculpted head retreated into the wall to reveal a stairway upwards. She swore, if there was something terrible at the end of this, she was just going to leave.

At the top of the stairs, there was a chamber, ornate and ancient. Dust and moss laid on the finely carved stone from the times of old. It was mostly empty, save for a table at the center of the room. At the focus of the room, there was a wall of strange designs, a mural of events untold. The Blades approached it and were in awe.

“Shor's bones! Here it is! Alduin's Wall,” Esbern exclaimed, “so well preserved... I've never seen a finer example of early second era Akaviri sculptural relief.”

“Esbern. We need information, not a lecture on art history,” Delphine interjected.

“Yes, yes,” the old Blade replied, looking to the Wall, “Let's see what we have. Look, here is Alduin!” He pointed at a dragon at the far left. “This panel goes back to the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled over Skyrim.”

He moved to another part of the Wall. “Here, the humans’ rebel against their dragon overlords, the legendary Dragon War.”

He moved to the exactly middle of the wall. “Alduin's defeat is the centerpiece of the Wall. You see, here he is falling from the Sky. The Nord Tongues, masters of the Voice, are arrayed against him.”

“So, does it show how they defeated him?” Delphine asked, “Isn't that why we're here?”

“Patience, my dear,” the old Blade replied, “The Akaviri were not a straightforward people. Everything is couched in allegory and mythic symbolism.” He looked again at the wall. “Yes, yes. This here, coming from the mouths of the Nord heroes, this is the Akaviri symbol for ‘Shout.’ But there's no way to know what Shout is meant."

“You mean they used a shout to defeat Alduin? You're sure?” Delphine begged, intrigued and desperate.

Esbern was lost in thought. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Presumably something rather specific to dragons, or even Alduin himself,” he speculated he “Remember, this is where they recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return."

“So, we're looking for a Shout, then,” Delphine repeated, her teeth grit, “Damn it.”

The old Blade moved to the right-hand section of the Wall. “Look, here. In the third panel,” he exclaimed, “The prophecy which brought the Akaviri to Tamriel in the first place, in search of the Dragonborn. Here are the Akaviri - the Blades - you see their distinctive longswords. Now they kneel, their ancient mission fulfilled, as the Last Dragonborn contends with Alduin at the end of time. Are you paying attention, Delphine? You might learn something of our own history. I know the prophecy by heart. Once all Blades knew it.”

“When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world

“When the Brass Tower walks, and Time is reshaped

“When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles

“When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls

“When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding'

“The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.”

So, this was Skathi’s prophecy. She was tasked by an ancient civilization no one had contacted for centuries to do battle for sake of the world. Perhaps it was better that they have this, as it means there were less headless chickens when the ending of the world was upon them. It meant the there was a chance, hollow or not. If it was an empty promise, then her life had little meaning. But then Kynareth had tasked her for this. It would be done.

“Well, I'm going to look around some more. See what the Blades left for us," Delphine remarked.

“Yes, yes, that's an excellent idea,” Esbern acknowledged, “Who knows what lost treasures we might discover?”

“I’m looking for a bed,” Skathi groaned.

* * *

After the rout, Jeanne had rallied the warband to hide out on the edge of the Reach, unable to move much further. Scouts had managed to find and bring the survivors of the southern attack to the camp. They counted the heads still on their bodies and they came out to maybe six hundred, most overcome with pain too harsh for them to stand.

Jeanne was far too focused on what they lost, sat on her cot. Harling, Mikaela, Heimrand, Mirafang. They fell. The first time she saw a dead body, she was shaken to her core. The fact these who she could say she knew for longer, even briefly, made their deaths so much harder to deal with. She wasn’t sure what she could do to deal with it.

As a commander, she couldn’t help but think she did the wrong thing. By the time they were surrounded, they still had a thousand soldiers to take the keep, but they lost so many soldiers in retreat. Out of line as well, as Ulfric was her superior officer and she gave the order regardless of his wishes. She hadn’t seen him but was told he survived the battle. What he thought, she didn’t know, but was afraid of the answer.

She thoughts were slightly interrupted by Eoni’s presence. “You need a shoulder to cry on,” the half-elf remarked.

Jeanne stared at her. “And you would be good at that?” the adopted Nord questioned.

“No, I’m terrible, but you need this,” Eoni admitted and sat next to her.

Jeanne sighed. The half-elf always seemed blasé about the troubles of others, so this was just weird. Perhaps she was trying to turn a new leaf. To be honest, it didn’t sound like it, but maybe she would let her try. If you don’t try, you’ll never get anything done, even if it seems out of place.

“So, what’s your problem?” Eoni asked. Yup, just like that.

Before she could answer, Ulfric appeared in the tent. He had apparently been an easy wound to treat, but you could hear his complaints to the healers from across camp. Jeanne couldn’t help but think his anger came from her incompetence. It wasn’t the first time she angered someone with her failures. Eoni slinked off, knowing when she wasn’t going to be of much use to this conversation.

“I understand we lost more than half our warband,” he remarked, “How do you explain this?”

Jeanne’s leg started bouncing. “Our forces along the southern road were outmatched, even with the Forsworn’s betrayal,” she explained, “They lost many soldiers while the Legion wasn’t nearly as injured. We would’ve gotten double the survivors if we had found them sooner.”

“Galmar said as much,” he stated, “His men numbered below a hundred by the time he found his way to camp. He knew the risks. Did you?”

She nodded. “Our progress had fallen short before we reached the steps to the keep,” she reported, “That and a returning Legion company turned the battle in the Empire’s favor. We were never going to keep the city for long.”

Ulfric hmphed. “I think I’m going to start an investigation into where the secret army that attacked us come from,” he remarked, “They couldn’t have easily hidden that one.”

“Right after the missing two thousand from Falkreath,” Jeanne muttered.

“I have fought in war before now, but I’ve never had such strange experiences as now,” the Jarl remarked, “I think this is how old men get their war stories.”

The adopted Nord chuckled, “I’m not ready to become an old man just yet.”

Ulfric smirked. This joviality was appreciated, but not comforting. She still did what she did; this was just delaying the inevitable.

“Sir, I disobeyed you by ordering the retreat and we were led into a rout,” Jeanne stated tensely, “Whatever you have planned, just do it now.”

He sighed. Jeanne couldn’t tell if that meant he didn’t want to do this or not. “You are going to rotated back to Windhelm to await further deployment indefinitely,” he explained, “I’ll decided how I feel about your actions by then.”

She nodded. That was fair. With how many soldiers they lost in this war, they couldn’t just drop her without having outright betrayed the cause. If he and the other commanders felt she was needed, she would be called upon again, but she would await that day. Hopefully, not long.

Before Ulfric could leave, Jeanne asked, “Would you have traded me for a better soldier?”

He stopped. “Not you,” he stated, “I have far more soldiers I would trade for better men.”

“Even if it were Dagrun Blood-Maiden?”

Ulfric’s expression turned to a confused shock. “Galmar told you about that, didn’t he?” he asked. Jeanne nodded. He sighed. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t ask her to be in my army. I tried months back when I found a place she frequented. The minute she came in with a babe not two years old, I knew I couldn’t win her over.”

Jeanne nodded. When a child is born to any couple, their lives tend to slow down to raise it. To her understanding, her parents were bold in their times, but marriage and children tamed their ways. They didn’t stop, but instead got cleverer. Warriors led a far more dangerous life and one wrong move meant their children live without parents. She could understand Dagrun wanting to stay to raise them, but there was something else.

“Who do you think was the father?” Jeanne asked.

“Not a clue,” Ulfric admitted, “There wasn’t a sign of who it could be. Hopefully, someone with far more important things in his life than adventurers’ work.”

“So, basically anything,” Jeanne remarked.

Ulfric gave a knowing smile. “To be honest,” he said wistfully, “if I thought I had a choice, I would be an adventurer. You get to find the wonderers of the world, fight the villains of every shadow, live a life without a path except the next adventure. Aye, that would the life for me.”

He left the tent after that. Jeanne wasn’t sure if an adventurer’s life was as romantic as he thought it was, but at least he had his dreams. Everyone needs a dream if they could live without it for now. Hopefully, Jeanne could live without hers.

* * *

By the next morning’s light, Rena was set to head out to Solitude. With the losses they took the day before, the Legion garrison needed reinforcements. They had lost many, including Vorsaz, though the most they’ll say for certain is that she was missing because of a lack of a body. Maybe with the northern campaign’s success, Tullius would have some space to give.

As Rena left Markarth, many of the townsfolk gave her cheers and blessings. As someone that was known as the captain of the Legionnaires that came back to fight, and an executioner to someone rumored to have sold out the city to invaders, she was quite popular. Ansgar though didn’t speak a word to her when he found out what happened. She didn’t know why, but it was a bit of an improvement by her estimations.

They had issues with messengers traveling alone, so Rena had an escort to protect her. On horseback, they made good time to the Whiterun border. Each of them knew the dangers of using the crossroads, but knew it was the only way to travel anywhere in and out of the Reach, so there was no choice but to ride. They crossed the border with shields raised.

If you had to ask what they expected, they would have to say another ambush or a patrol. Not, as they learned, a division of the Stormcloak warband. It may have been far away on another road, but their silhouette was clear from where they were standing. They could only be heading to Morthal from where how close they were. Rena knew what she had to do and abandoned her mission for another.

With the size of her entourage, she knew combat with the warband was unwise, so chose to warn the people of Hjaalmarch instead. She rode off the beaten path, through rivers and rocks to gain ground on the warband. Thank the Divines Skyrim horses were so strange that they couldn’t be stopped by any terrain.

* * *

There was no time to rest on the warfront. The goal was to take Windhelm before Ulfric and the Stormcloak warband could return and that meant moving from one battle to the next. Ravani joined a battalion to take Winterhold, it being an easy battle with the odds being four against one. The hold guard was minimal, so while the rest of the contingent rested, this battalion would take the last hold in their path.

The travel wasn’t easy. Winterhold had earned its name for being a cold and suffocating snowstorm of a hold. Ravani could barely see in front of her, which made the odd bear or wolf inconveniently frightening. No one could be certain they had all the soldiers they set out with and they hadn’t been flung to the winds. Whoever lived here must be truly bizarre to like it here.

Eventually, the city was in sight. Well, if you could call it a city. Everyone knew the city proper had fallen into the sea a century ago and the only remnants were looked more like a village before coming to the mages’ college, the only thing still made of stone. No one knew why it happened but blamed the mages. That was fair, given Ravani didn’t think they were part of the Mages’ Guild.

When the battalion reached the city, the battle began. One guard spotted them, and it set the entire hundred men of the white-clad hold guard off. They quickly turned into a shield wall in defense of Winterhold. These ones were smart, smarter than the Stormcloak warband. From their shield wall, they loosed a volley upon the Legionnaires. They managed to catch most of them but were a few they struck true. If Ulfric had ten thousand of them, he might stand a chance.

Ravani joined the archers in a volley upon the shield wall and they caught every arrow. Their wooden shields were packed tightly together, and no arrow could make it through. That’s when they summoned the battlemages, who threw lightning and fireballs upon them. It broke the shield wall, but that didn’t stop the company. They charged battalion as one force.

The Legionnaires prepared to receive them, but a dozen had taken up the greatsword and broke their lines. They were prime targets for archers, but at least two shield bearers protect them at any given time. Ravani couldn’t help but think they were making up for their size with asymmetrical tactics. Clever, but it wouldn’t stop the Legion.

“Archers!” her captain ordered, “Stand in a line!”

The eighty or so archers stood in formation behind the Legion shields. These tactics were discussed beforehand in her brief training by the contingent.

“Volley!” her captain ordered again.

When the archers nocked and drew their arrows, the shield bearers ducked to allow their comrades to loose their arrows into the company. There were many who could weather the arrows, but not enough, and a handful of soldiers were taken in the first volley. These tactics were for smaller groups of Legionnaires, like companies or the like, but were just as useful in greater numbers.

What was funny was that Nords were typically a few inches taller than Imperials, and the battalion was made up of mostly Imperials. So, Ravani aimed over her comrades’ heads and caught a hold guard in his eye. Her fellow archers took after this example and started shooting over the heads of their shield bearers and took out several men like this.

But then, like a troll through a storefront, a guard burst through the Legion shields and started cutting through soldiers like logs. He caught every arrow that went is path and no one could get a hit on him. Ravani took her blade and tried to cut him but didn’t manage to get past his shield without getting bashed and stabbed. She fell to the ground, dead.

* * *

The fields turned from drying grass to thick snow as they came closer to Morthal. They more closely followed the road as they came closer until they found the entire hold guard standing at attention in the streets. Rena was surprised they were ready without warning. At the longhouse, Jarl Idgrod surveyed her soldiers with pride. Rena approached.

“Jarl Idgrod,” she spoke, “I rode here to warn you of the Stormcloak warband.”

“That was unnecessary, child,” Jarl Idgrod stated, “I knew their failures would motive more desperate strategies.”

Rena thought that strange. “I wasn’t aware you knew of the recent battles,” she remarked.

“It is difficult to not be aware of them,” the jarl explained, “The thousands dead echo from wherever they fall. You need not worry for long, as the Stormcloaks are losing ground. Soon, they won’t be able to make war.”

“I hope that’s true,” Rena replied, “Is there anything you need me to do?”

Idgrod thought for a moment. “Fort Snowhawk needs to be aware of the attack,” she stated, “If you could warn them on the way to Solitude, that would be much appreciated.”

Rena nodded and rode out of the city. Such a strange creature, Idgrod was. She knew far more than what she should. Knowing about the attack on Dawnstar was understandable, if a traveling merchant or two told news from the east, but Markarth was far away and information wouldn’t be easy to get. That’s not even mentioning her mission. How did she know these things? Spies?

The theories of how Idgrod was so well informed took a backseat to riding to Fort Snowhawk. It was a short journey, but any good rider put most of their focus on the ride. A distraction could throw them from their saddle and kill them. As such, she road carefully, but fast.

When they came upon Fort Snowhawk, Rena found their bows trained on her party. An understandable reaction, given they wouldn’t recognize her, but it still hurt. She halted her horse and raised her hands, the party followed suit. Out from the fort, an officer walked over to them with a group of four, swords drawn.

“State your business,” the officer barked.

“By Jarl Idgrod’s request,” Rena explained, “I’m informing you that the Stormcloak warband is entering the hold.”

The officer looked her up and down. “And you aren’t it?” he inquired.

Yeah, their appearance could be taken as Stormcloaks. The rest of the party rode in studded armor for protection and speed. Rena wore heavy armor, but not an officer’s helmet, as she believed it to be a dead giveaway for opportunistic archers. Given the state of their armor was rent and poorly cleaned, it wouldn’t be a stretch to believe that they were just Stormcloaks with mismatched disguises.

“Do you think there’s a way for me to prove that we’re Legionnaires?” Rena inquired.

“Not sure,” the officer stated incredulously.

Rena thought about things that might convince him. “I am Capt. Rena Donton,” she stated, handing over her captain’s sword, “I fought in the Helgen Attack, the Fall Forest Massacre, the Whiterun Attack, the Battle for Whiterun and the first and second battles for the Reach. I wear a soldier’s helmet to make sure I don’t get picked off by archers. My most constant colleague is Capt. Ansgar Nor- “

“Wait a minute,” the officer interrupted, “You know Capt. Ansgar? Tell me about him.”

Of all the things that could prove her loyalty, knowing Ansgar wasn’t something she thought would be one of them. “He’s one of the most powerful warriors I’ve ever witnessed,” she stated, “but kind of an ass.”  
The officer nodded. “Yup, you’re Legion,” he remarked, “I’ve fought alongside him and he’s why I asked to be transfer to this frozen plane of Oblivion.”

A tempting proposition. “So, you’ll prepare for the Stormcloaks?” she inquired.

He handed her sword back. “Right away,” he stated.

The officer and his entourage went back to the fort and Rena went back on the road. She had done her duty to Skyrim and that was enough for now. It was funny; she was starting to think about Skyrim more and more as a place with people who lived here more than just an assignment. She wondered what that meant. Hopefully, it wouldn’t cloud her judgement.

* * *

Well, Ravani wasn’t quite dead. She had learned no one pays attention to a corpse that’s supposed to be there, so she pretended to be one, so no one pay much mind to her. Once the hold guard had their back to her, she jumped up behind them and put her dagger into their backs. They fell fast and didn’t look back until the shouting became heard over the sounds of battle, three corpses in.

The guard that had stabbed her turned around and was taken aback by the sight of his comrades. They numbered so few now, maybe fifty if one was generous. It made for a shock when he threw down his blade so great his fellow stopped fighting to look upon him.

He threw down his helmet, revealing his head of dark red hair. “It’s over!” he proclaimed, “I surrender Winterhold to the Legion.”

It was Jarl Korir all this time. He fought with his men in their own armor for his hold. Admirable, if nothing else. He left the battlefield with his men following him. They respected him seemingly just as much as he respected them. Few could claim to have that. Ravani was impressed, even with her skepticism with the idea of such mutual loyalty.

As the Legion began to rest after the battle, an unexpected sight was theirs to behold. Out from the college walkway came an Altmer in the uniform of a Thalmor justiciar. How was a Thalmor this far into Stormcloak territory? Why was he still here? Ravani could only take a gulp of her remaining cabbage soup and await him to start talking.

“Who is your commanding officer?” he inquired, inpatient for the answer.

Ravani stood up to answer him. “That would be Tribune Malenshield,” she explained, “but why do you ask?”

“Where is he?” he asked, ignoring the Dunmer’s question.

“That’s not really your concern, is it?” she replied.

The Thalmor rolled his eyes. “Do you have any idea how difficult it has been to survive out here?” he barked, “I’ve had to take refuge in the college to keep from being killed by these barbaric Nords. You wouldn’t understand fearing for your life like that.”

Oh, she would. “Try the Gray Quarter, goldenrod,” Ravani snarked back.

The Thalmor left, offended and still trying to find the tribune. With a personality like that, Ravani was almost sad she wasn’t in the Stormcloaks anymore. She could’ve stabbed him and gotten away with it. Though that may be the reason she left in the first place.

* * *

The time had come. The Legion was on its approach into Eastmarch. Soon enough, the men marching on the road and the fleet preparing to sail down the White river would make it to Windhelm and Ulfric would be left without his place of power. The war’s end was in sight and little could stop them.

The only thing in their path was Fort Kastav and that wasn’t much. It was only one fort against the three thousand strong that march down their path. Ravani was almost sad the garrison was about to die, as she knew them. Then again, she knew those bastards. She had little remorse for the foes ahead of her.

As they came upon the fort, they spotted the numbers had increased by ten. The Eastmarch hold guard had come to meet them. The hold guard was far different from the Stormcloak regulars, despite having the same uniform. These men were over a thousand strong and were the reason people were afraid of Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion. They had numbers and training that made the other holds fear them, while the warband lacked the discipline of their sister organization. They wouldn’t find the glory hounds of the Stormcloak ranks here.

Before they could react a swarm of arrows were seen above their heads, threatening to block the setting sun. The Legionnaires barely had the time to block them as they landed into their ranks. They lost an around a hundred men in one volley. Ravani knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but that was fast.

As the Legionnaires form a shield wall, the Eastmarch guards made their own. The two began sending volleys toward each other until it was obvious that they weren’t making any ground. That’s when the men with greatswords and warhammers charged into the Legion ranks. The frontlines did what they could but died fast.

Ravani knew she couldn’t abide the asymmetrical tactics for long, not if they wanted to reach Windhelm with the next two days. As such, she threw herself on top of one of the shields as a surface, her weight not being an issue for the shield bearer and started loosing arrows at the Eastmarch berserkers. This didn’t last long, as another volley fell into the Legion ranks, but she ducked under the shield just in time. Once the volley passed, she threw herself back onto the shield.

“Thanks for this,” she remarked to the shield bearer.

“No problem,” they replied.

This action was mimicked by other lightweight archers with disproportionate arm strength and they began taking out the numerous brutes. Other archers of greater weight continue to volley the Eastmarch ranks. It was much like this until not a berserker stood in their ranks, but the shield wall was still up.

To meet the Eastmarch shield wall, battlemages emerged from the Legion ranks to send fire and lightning into their foes. However, whoever was behind the hold guard’s leadership and tactics spotted this and arrows caught them before a spark left their hands.

At least, that was as much as Ravani could see in this mess. She was just one soldier in among thousands stood shoulder to shoulder. She couldn’t make out much over the ranks, but the officers’ orders were heard by many, when they told battlemages to move up and when they were told to move back. Other than that, she saw as much as any soldiers

It was clear to all that this battle would move into the night. Almost as clear as that word that turned every soldier on that battlefield’s blood colder that Skyrim’s deadliest nights.

“Dragon!”

Ravani turned with every head in the army to behold a massive beast with purple scales and wings longer than the mountain path. It was safe to say no one had any question what it was. It was horrifying to behold it, for they knew it was almost certain they were going to die today. The Dunmer left a tear in her eye. She failed to stop this war in time and now she would die.

The dragon let loose a flurry of flames that cut a swath of death into the Legion ranks as they scattered, trying to find someplace to hide. Ravani found a rock rest against as she beheld the beast do much similar destructions upon Eastmarch’s lines. It didn’t care who wore what uniform; it was only here to kill everyone. The Dunmer could only conclude that was the truest thing about dragons she could see.

Running towards the Legion ranks, past all the carnage of the battlefield was a hold guard with the weight of a leader and a bow draw. The remaining Legionnaires were about to kill him when he raised his hands in peace. He didn’t want to fight it seemed and that was not surprising with the circumstances before them.

“Please, come with me!” he asked, “If we stand together, we can force the dragon to retreat!”

“How can we trust a Stormcloak?” an officer replied.

Ravani wasn’t having any doubt. “If we don’t stand together, we’ll die!” she barked at the officer, “Even if we die together, we have a better chance than apart!”

The officer was visible torn, but the dragon’s screeches flung him from his conflict. “Legionnaires!” he ordered, “To the fort!”

The remaining Legion ranks bolted toward Fort Kastav as the dragon rained fire over their heads. It seemed to run out of flame as they reached the walls. There was hardly any space for additional warriors, but the ranks of these two enemies made a long wall of soldiers against the beast.

Ravani joined a volley of every arrow hold guard and Legionnaire had to spare and they flew into the dragon’s hide, even if many missed. The arrows didn’t pierce its scales, but the leathery wings were tearing like paper in a gruesome display for all around it. Yet it was still flying.

It lunged down unto the gather hold guard and Legion forces and cut another swath of flame through them. The heat threw many Legionnaires back in surprise, a few fell like death had suddenly taken them and it very well could have. The strength of the dragon was horrifying. What could mortals do against it?

With nothing certain but death, Ravani chose to draw her bowstring again. It may be pointless to resist, but resistance was her only option.

She loosed an arrow at its wings, but it went wide and fell into some parts unimportant. She loosed a second and it hit the wings, but it was still in the air. A third arrow was nocked, drawn and loosed, but it wasn’t alone. A swarm of arrows flew into the air with it. Ravani saw that every soldier who could stand, had hands and a bow joined her in her volley. She breath a sigh of relief that wasn’t alone, though it did seem like it.

The volley found its way into the dragon’s silhouette, mostly around the wings. The beast was losing its grace in the air. It occurred to Ravani that if it fell, the force of falling may be enough to kill it. She began loosing arrows with the intent to cut the wings and the other archers caught wind of her idea. Many an arrow began pierce its hide as it flew around, trying to maintain flight, but it was useless. With thunderous force, it crashed into the mountain side like a baby bird failing to grasp the techniques of flying.

But it wasn’t dead, much to the shock of soldiers that were prepared to celebrate. It rose from the snow and rock, screeching and whining like some Daedric child. Ravani was through with waiting for its death and volley arrows into it landed body. Every archer joined her and the force of that many arrows pierced it hide and it fell to the ground, dead.

Never had Ravani seen a dragon, but she hadn’t heard many stories of their deaths. The Dragonborn was said to be the only one that could kill them, but that proved as false as the ribbons of light said to writhe in the winds.

Before a single soldier could cheer, the Eastmarch commander ordered, “Throw the body into the sea. We can’t be safe until it’s done.”

As soldiers left the fort to drag its body to the shoreline, Ravani collapsed. She swore to whatever gods would listen that she would be a holy woman if she never had to fight another dragon again.

* * *

By night’s fall, Rena and party reached Solitude unscathed. If they hadn’t gone to Morthal, they would’ve had three of four less hours to their travel. Fortunately, they didn’t have wild animals, bandits or worse jump them at any point on the road or off it. Though all this good fortune would be for naught if they couldn’t summon reinforcements.

Through the road into Solitude, it was plainly clear the city was on edge. Legionnaires patrolled the streets to supplement the city guard absent during night shifts. No folk lingered, while before there were usually stragglers here or there. What windows were there had been boarded. It all gave the impression they were expecting war.

When they climbed the hill to Castle Dour, Rena found a Legion company was just there. They weren’t doing exercises, they weren’t patrolling the grounds, they weren’t fighting anyone. It was just another sign of the times. Rena hoped they would never see this city a battlefield.

The party dismounted and Rena excused them to the barracks while she went to the war room. She found General Tullius and Legate Rikke just tired. Tullius was caught in the middle of drinking some unknown drink and Rikke was reading something she seemed to have read before. They both looked like this was getting to them.

“General Tullius,” Rena said in a ridged tone, “The Stormcloaks have been forced from the Reach, but we’ve taken heavy losses. We request reinforcements.”  
Tullius nodded. “I’m sorry to say,” he stated, “but reinforcements aren’t coming for a while.”

The captain was trying to hide her shock and confusion. “I beg your pardon?” she requested.

The general sighed and stood up to walk to the table. “We’ve sent word for reinforcements to the homeland, but it’s going to be a while,” he stated, “With Falkreath taken, we can’t rely on the roads to transport soldiers. They’ll need to sail here.”

Rena knew how terrible that news was. Sailing from the closest port city of Anvil, sailing reinforcements would take over a month’s travel to reach Solitude. What’s more, they wouldn’t be safe from opportunistic pirates or political enemies that decided the Empire’s wishes would be best to undermine. So even if the reinforcements arrived safely, there’s no telling if they would be useful.

“I’m sorry, but those are the facts,” Tullius continued, “We can only hope the northern campaign goes well.”

Rena didn’t know what the northern campaign fully entailed. She heard that Legion forces successfully took Dawnstar, but not much else since she first heard word. One could assume it was securing the northern holds, perhaps with the endgame of taking Windhelm, but she didn’t know. She would have to wait and see like everyone else.

But that wasn’t as much an immediate concern as food. She hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, so headed down to the mess hall for a late dinner. When she got there, it was mostly empty, with the needing to be woken up to get her some food. When she finally got some, it was a leftover meat pie, some raw leaks and half a bottle of ale. She ate it and left.

She went to the bathhouse next. As opposed to the lacking crowd of the mess hall, the baths were packed. Nearly every pool was full of soldiers who had the proof to say they had seen battle across their bodies. Despite the population, it was quiet, with few having conversations that could reach anyone’s ears. It seemed they mostly wished to relax here. They were probably fresh from the front.

Rena found a modestly full pool and rested in its waters. Nearly a week of constant stress and battle was washed away in the calming bath, but she was encouraged not to linger. She saw that the other occupants were already pruned from their time submerged and some had even fallen asleep, needing their comrade to keep from falling underwater. She let herself calm down, but once she felt her skin starting to wrinkle, she was out.

In her assigned bed, she tinkered with her armor and sharped her blade, but she the reality of her situation soon came back to remind her. She had survived many battles but there were still many to fight. If a stray arrow or a heavy hammer found its mark, it was all over. The longer this damnable war went on, the more likely she’d die. It was driving her mad.

She went out for a walk in the Solitude streets and they did truly earn that title. Only the occasional guard to break up the monotony and remind her of curfew. The relative silence and lack of any real conversation would drive her mad. Well, the solitude would kill her, had company not find her.

Out from the shadows came a man with blackened eye sockets. “You!” he spoke in a craze, “You’ll help me! You help people, right? That’s what you do, right?”  
Rena was confused and terrified, a hand on a dagger at her side. “What do you need?” she nervously asked.  
“My master abandoned me!” he stated like an abandoned child, “Abandoned his people. And nothing I can say will change his mind. Now he refuses to even see me. He says I interrupt his vacation!”  
He sounded confused and shocked such a thing was even happening. “It’s been so many years,” he mourned, “Won’t you please help me?”  
If it meant she didn’t have to deal with a crazy man in the middle of the night, she would gladly sort it out. “How can I find your master?” she asked. She hoped a guard was right around the corner.  
He seemed to have a smile on his face. “Last I saw him, he was visiting a friend in the Blue Palace,” he explained, “But no one so mundane as the Jarl. No, no.” Mundane as the Jarl? What does that mean? He continued, “Such people are beneath him. No, he went into the forbidden wing of the palace, to speak with an old friend. Said it was ages since they had last had tea.”  
“Oh, and you’ll need the hip bone,” he remembered, handing Rena a piece of an actually skeleton, “it’s very important. No entering Pelagius’ Wing without that.” And then he left.  
Confused, Rena went back to the barracks and donned her best clothes. She had never been to the Blue Palace, and while this was not ideal circumstances, she was going to look that part of a visitor. As an officer of the Legion, she was let in without the need to explain herself. She made sure no one could follow her to the delipidated west wing. Halfway through batting some cobwebs away, she blinked and was in the middle of the foggy woods.  
“What in Molag’s balls?” she cursed. This was going to drive her mad.


	16. Chapter 15

Rena took stock of her surroundings. There was no sign of which forest she was in, as the fog hid whatever landmarks could tell where she was. She looked around and the trees were not unique to any forest she’d been through. The only signs of civilizations were stone arches, walkways and two men at a banquet table.

“More tea, Pelly my dear?” one of the men asked.

This man was strange. His accent was unlike any she had heard before, some strange butchering of a Breton dialect. His clothes were equally bizarre, a fine suit colored in halves, one orange and the other was purple. His white hair and beard were that of an old man, as was his face, but his smirk was that of a child. Whoever this was didn’t seem to be a normal person.

The other man was blond with tan skin and wore something far less bombastic. He seemed to be both an Imperial and an Altmer, with mannish and elvish on his face. Rena remembered the Mad Emperor, Pelagius III, was one such mix. He also ruled Solitude before his ascendancy, particularly taking the now forbidden wing as the place he rested his head. Perhaps she was seeing something out of nothing or gone mad with a lack of sleep.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” the saner looking man refused, “Goes right through me. Besides, I have so many things to do,” he trailed off before remembering what he was going on about, “So may undesirables to contend with.” Rena suddenly got very scared, very fast. “Naysayers. Buffoons. Detractors. Why, my headsman hasn’t slept in three days!”

He sounded as mad as the real Pelagius III. But he couldn’t be. Pelagius was dead several centuries over. Then again, this was hardly a sane situation. What was going on?

“You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius,” the strange man of far more sanity than first assumed remarked, “What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old?”

Rena discovered she was wrong to assume anyone at this table had any sanity.

“You are the best Septim that’s ever ruled,” the strange man reassured, “Well, except for that Martin fellow, but he turned into a dragon god, and that’s hardly sporting.” He continued, “You know, I was there for that whole sordid affair. Marvelous time! Butterflies, blood, a Fox, a severed head. Oh, and the cheese! To die for!”

A strange comment. This man said he was there for the Oblivion Crisis, which was over two hundred years ago. No race of man lived that long. What’s more, of the significant figures of the time period, she remembered none of this description. A seeming immortal and a long dead mad emperor quickly made this the strangest night in Rena’s life.

“Excuse, strange sir,” she interrupted.

The strange man pouted, and a portal whisked Pelagius away. “How rude!” the strange man sighed, “Can’t be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two.”

Rena felt very uncomfortable with even being here. “I’m here to deliver a message,” she stated.

His expression changed to a far more sarcastic one. “Reeaaaallllyyyy?” he asked, stretching the word uncomfortably long, “Ooh, ooh, what kind of message? A song? A summons? Wait, I know! A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine! Those are my favorite.”

Rena was silent as she tried to process this weird man. “Well?” the mad man inquired, “Spit it out, mortal. I haven’t got an eternity!” And then he thought for a moment and remarked, “Actually, I do.” He gave a little chuckle. “Little joke. But seriously. What’s the message?”

Rena blurted out, “Please don’t hurt me,” before realizing what she said and going quiet. She had faced many a battle, suffered defeats and even two dragons, but this man made her think she was going to die. After this, Rena assumed she wouldn’t be afraid of anything again.

She collected herself and stated, “I was asked to retrieve you from your vacation.”

The strange man raised an eyebrow. “Were you now?” he remarked, “By whom?”

Rena honestly forgot the name of the man who asked her to do this, but the strange man interrupted her. “Wait! Don’t tell me! I want to guess!” He was deep in thought and came up with a few names. “Was it Molag? No, no, Little Tim, the toymaker’s son? The ghost of King Lysandus? Or was it- Yes, Stanley, that talking grapefruit from Passwall!” And he began to pout again. “Wrong on all accounts, aren’t I?"

Rena nodded to confirm. “Ha! No matter!” he proclaimed, “Honestly, I don’t want to know. Why ruin the surprise?” And he turned his focus on her more. “But more to the point. Do you, tiny, puny, expendable little mortal, actually think you can convince me to leave?”

Before Rena could even answer, he interrupted, “Because that’s crazy. You do realize who you’re dealing with here?”

Put on the spot, she could only tell the truth. “You’re a madman,” Rena quaked. She began eyeing the knife at his belt, hoping it stayed sheathed.

“Jolly good guess!” he cheered, “But only half right. I’m a mad god. The Mad God, actually. It’s a family title. Gets passed down from me to myself every few thousand years.”

Malacath’s ballsack, Rena thought she found out who this was. Of all the things her nanny told her that she never cared for, there was one story she never forgot.

His.

“Now you. You can call me Ann Marie.”

?

“But only if you’re partial to being flayed alive and having an angry immortal skip rope with your entrails.”

Yup, it was him.

“If not, then call me Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. Charmed.” He curtsied and held his hand out like a gentleman asking to kiss a lady’s hand. Rena assumed he’d just as soon cut her hand off as a joke, so kept them to herself.  
“So, does that mean you’ll leave? Or not?” she inquired. She just wanted to get out of this nightmare.

He straightened out and put a hand to his chin, though whose she could say. “Now that’s the real question, isn’t it?” he remarked, “Because honestly, how much time off could a demented Daedra really need?” As much as he wanted was the answer Rena would’ve said. “So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave. That’s right. I’m done. Holiday, complete. Time to return to the hum drum day to day.”

Thank the Divines. Rena would even thank all Nine of them if they were behind this. But alas.

“On one condition.”

What now?

“You have to find the way out first. Good luck with that.”

Rena decided to try humoring him. “Simple.”

“Is it?” he inquired, shoving an inquiring eye in her face. “Care to look around. This is not, I dare say, the Solitude botanical gardens. Have you any idea where you are? Where you truly are?

Rena shook her head. Sheogorath rolled his head. Rena was getting disturbed by his collection.

“Welcome to the deceptively verdant mind of the Emperor Pelagius III. That’s right! You’re in the head of a dead, homicidally insane monarch.”

Of all the places for the Mad God to take a vacation, this was the most proprietary. And terrifying.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he stated, “Can I still rely on my swords and spells and sneaking and all that nonsense? Sure, sure.” Rena realized she should’ve brought her sword. “Or you could use  
THE WABBAJACK!”

And from behind his back was a frightening staff. On its head was three faces with mouths open unnaturally long, in laughter or screams couldn’t be discern. Rena never used magic, so using this would be challenging.  
“Huh? Huh?” Sheogorath fished for a reaction, like he could get one from salmon, “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”

Rena took the staff and was terrified for her life. Whatever was in this fog, she assumed her coming insanity was one of them. She hoped it would only be a brief exchange.

* * *

The captain wandered the mists, confused and afraid. She had lost the path many times, the fog too thick to even look down to see something. One couldn’t help but wonder if this was by design, that if its point was to drive people insane by the sheer discombobulation. Sheogorath was known for his trickery, both subtle and gross. It made sense, which was more than what you could usually say about the Mad God.

Suddenly, Sheogorath voice echoed through the air. “Oh, good choice,” he spoke with joy and condescension, “Well, good for me. I find everyone being out to get you so terribly entertaining. You might find it,” he paused, “less so.”

So, she was on the right trail for something, she just didn’t know for how or for what. She tried using the Wabbajack to feel her way around, the most someone so lacking in magical talent could get out of it. She hit a tree by surprised and she jumped. Feeling around it, she could tell it was an archway. She chose to believe passing through it made as much sense as anything going on, so she followed its path.

Using the Wabbajack to feel the dirt path, Rena moved forward with all the caution she could muster. Doing this, she hit something on the ground and fell over onto a tree’s roots. She was getting tired of being here, being unable to ground herself or find her way in this mess. She just wanted to go home. What witchcraft was making her so vulnerable in this place?

She eventually came up what she could tell was a structure when Sheogorath chimed in again. “You see, Pelagius’ mother was, well,” he paused for the right words, “let us say unique. Although, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, she was fairly average for a Septim.”

Rena remembered where she was, in the mind of a mad emperor. As such, she supposed there would be something bizarre here. She found a flight of stairs and climbed them, trying to find something she could do. She found herself looking into an arena with Storm Atronachs locked in battle, the figure of Pelagius watching this scene with bodyguards, all clad in Dwarven armor of all things.

The Pelagius seemed strange. Well, everything in this accursed realm was strange, but the way he was acting was off. He seemed intensely focused, as opposed to the confidently mad man she saw before. He seemed as intense as General Tullius, but he was paying attention solely on the Atronach battle. It didn’t seem to be something that deserved his attention, but he still watched with bated breath.

“That woman wielded fear like a cleaver,” Sheogorath remarked, “Or did she wield a cleaver and make people afraid? I never get that part right.” He trailed off before remembering what he was saying. “Oh, but she taught her son well. Pelagius learned at a very early age that danger could come from anywhere. At any time. Delivered by anyone.”

“The objective here is simple, you simpleton!” he stated, “Use your Wabbajack to defeat the enemy, while they do the same!”

So, it was a riddle. Thing was, Rena was unsure how to make the Wabbajack work though, so began to wave it around, trying to get it to do something. She wacked it in the vain attempt to get it to fling something. She pointed it at one of the Atronachs, assuming they were a key to this, are gripped it hard, only for nothing to happen. How did Sheogorath think she could use a mage’s staff?

She tried to think of some way it would work. She thought back to her tutor’s lessons about magic and what the six schools of its practice were: destruction, conjuration, alteration, restoration, illusion and enchantment. Any use of magic was tied to these basic uses, no matter how broad. Her only thought was to think a word and the staff would use a spell of one of those six natures.

Pointing the Wabbajack at an Atronach, she thought, “alter” and a blast of energy flew from the staff’s head. The Storm Atronach was changed into one of Flame. Their battle didn’t change, fighting without advantage or sign of end. Rena cast another blast at the other Atronach, and it was changed to Ice, but there was still no change in the battle.

“Hmm,” Sheogorath remarked, “Your creature doesn’t appear to be fairing any better than before. Methinks your aim is off.”

It was a pointless exercise, wasn’t it?

Rena threw a blast of energy at the visage of Pelagius and he was transformed into a Flame Atronach. His guards, appearing to be shocked, drew swords against him. They turned on their emperor in his strange form and slew him, bursting his form into untethered flames. Perhaps detrimental to her goals, but there wasn’t much to do.

“Oho! I thought you’d never figure it out,” Sheogorath remarked, “With the threat gone, Pelagius is under the delusion that he is safe, which means you’ve helped him,” he paused, “sort of. And we’re that much closer to home.”

The fog seemed far clearer than before and so Rena headed out to another path. “You’ve headed down the path of dreams,” Sheogorath stated, “Unfortunately for you, Pelagius suffered night terrors from a young age.”

Rena hoped she wouldn’t see anything terrible.

“All you need to do is find something to wake our poor Pelagius up,” he explained, “You’ll find his terrors easy to repel, but persistent.”

Rena came upon a clearing in the forest, empty save for a bed. Resting on the bed was Pelagius, though who knows if it was the actual Pelagius? Despite appearing to be asleep at first, his were shut with silent screaming and tears. What horrors he saw in life was surely something that caused his psychosis to worsen.

With that in mind, Rena blasted him with the Wabbajack. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Suddenly, out from the woods was a wolf. Rena stood to defend herself, but its intent was clearly against Pelagius. As it charged the bed, the captain threw a blast of alteration at it and it fell back. In a puff of smoke, the wolf was transformed into a docile goat that began to graze.

She blasted Pelagius again, as it clearly provoked a reaction.

“Ain’t this a surprise?” a voice spoke up.

Out from the woods came a man stood tall in heavy armor with a war hammer in hand. When he was about to swing it down on her, Rena blasted him, and he was transformed into a child. What was strange was that be bore resemblance to Pelagius, with blond hair and a mix of elven and mannish features. She was unsure if this was a coincidence or not.

Again, Rena blasted the sleeping madman.

Out from the woods came a hag, wrinkled skin and avian features giving that away. It prepared to cast flames on Pelagius when it was blasted by the Wabbajack. It transformed into a sultry maiden in revealing clothes. Rena felt embarrassed and just blasted Pelagius again.

This time, a Flame Atronach came from the woods and was quickly turned into a bonfire by Sheogorath’s strange staff. Rena assumed the foes wouldn’t be that outlandish when something strange appeared. It was a skeletal creature in golden robes with no legs, seeming as ancient as draugr. The Wabbajack turned it into a chest.

With the strange skeleton defeated, Pelagius began to stir. He woke up and seemed as rested as a man who slept the night away. That was not in Rena’s immediate future.

“Well now, that’s something to crow about,” Sheogorath remarked, “With Pelagius up and about you’re moving right along. We’ll both be home in no time.”

Rena found the fog had lifted further and began going down another path.

“Ah, now this is a sad path,” the Mad God explained, “Pelagius hated and feared many things. Assassins, wild dogs, the undead, pumpernickel,” he trailed off, “But the deepest, keenest hatred was for himself.”

In the middle of a clearing was an Imperial soldier, fist raised for a fight. When Rena prepared to fight him, she found he wasn’t even looking at her. He was looking at what appeared to be a tiny Pelagius. He had an adult body, but it was just as tall as a babe. Rena began to figure she had lost her mind, but no, she was in someone else’s.

“The attacks he makes on himself can be seen here fully,” Sheogorath remarked, “They are always carried out on the weakest part of his fragile self.”

Out from the woods came ghostly figures with battle axes in hand. Rena knew she couldn’t take them in combat, lacking armor or weapons. But she did have a Wabbajack. She cast alteration on the man in Imperial armor and he shrunk as the tiny Pelagius grew. Another blast and the soldier shrank to the size of Pelagius before and the image of the mad emperor was as tall as a Giant. The now little Legionnaire was kicked into oblivion.

Now was for the ghosts. They struck the giant Pelagius and it caused him to shrink. Rena figured they and the Legionnaire were representation of Pelagius’s broken psyche, though she didn’t know what. Her mental lessons made her feel like this shit.

Out of the impression the Wabbajack was always going to solve her problems, she cast alteration on the ghosts. Much like the Legionnaire, they began to shrink as Pelagius grew, even with their protests. When Pelagius became a giant again, the ghost began to disappear into nothingness.

“Wonderfully done,” Sheogorath stated, “Pelagius is finally ready to love himself and continue hating everyone else.”

Rena returned to the table at the center of this all. At the table were the creatures from the former experiences, like the Dwarven soldiers and Atronachs. They were all feasting as Sheogorath was standing perfectly erect in his chair. Rena wasn’t even phased.  
“’gorath?” Rena inquired.

The Mad God was shaken from his state with a frown. “Do you mind?” he sighed, “I’m busy doing the fishstick. It’s a very delicate state of mind!”

“So’s mind,” Rena replied, “I’ve done it. I’ve fixed Pelagius’ mind.”

He shrugged. “’Fixed’ is such a subjective term,” he remarked, “I think ‘treated’ is far more appropriate, don’t you? Like one does to a rash, or an arrow in the face. Ah, but no matter. Heartless mortal that you are, you’ve actually succeeded and survived. I am forced to honor my end of the bargain.” He seemed disappointed. “So, congratulations! You’re free to go!”

“Finally,” Rena muttered.

He seemed to hear that. “I have been known to change my mind,” he stated, “So, go. Really.”

Sheogorath stood up with a goblet raised. “Pelagius Septim the Third, once the Mad Emperor of Tamriel, now so boringly sane,” he gave speech, “I always knew he had it in him!” He sighed, “Well, I suppose it’s back to the Shivering Isles. The trouble Haskill can get into while I’m gone simply boggles the mind.”

He set his cup down and looking himself over. “Let’s make sure I’m not forgetting anything,” he muttered, “Clothes? Check. Beard? Check. Luggage?” He noticed his was absent. “Luggage! Now where did I leave my luggage?”

Out from a portal came the man that gave Rena this quest in the first place. “Master!” he cheered, “You’ve taken me back! Does this mean we’re going home? Oh, happy times! I can’t wait to- “

“Yes, yes, that’s quite enough celebration,” Sheogorath interrupted, “Let’s send you ahead, shall we?”

And just as suddenly, the man was gone through a mortal. The Mad God turned to Rena and said, “As for you my little mortal minion, feel free to keep the Wabbajack. As a symbol of my,” he seemed to realize he was about to lie, “Oh, just take the damn thing.” And curtsied. “You take care of yourself, now. And if you ever find yourself in New Sheoth, do look me up. We can share a strawberry torte.

Ta, ta!”

And just as suddenly as before, she was back in the forbidden wing of the Blue Palace.

“I’m done!” Rena stated and left.

I get that feeling. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to punish Sheogorath for making this an extra-long chapter.

“Just try, ya talentless hack!”


	17. Chapter 16

Skathi was torn by the sight of the Greybeards’ monastery. It was decided that if anyone knew about a Shout that could bring down dragons, it was them. And if anyone was going to get close enough to even learn it, it was Skathi. On paper, a solid plan.

In practice, the prospect was making her uncomfortable. Of all places, in the wild and tame, this was where she felt the most at peace. So far from the complications and horrors of the world bellow. The mountains’ chill never felt so warm up there. To bring their problems here almost felt blasphemous, but they had to be done.

As she entered the monastery, it felt colder than normal. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but the halls seemed to know what she had done and were judging her. Impossible, but her nervousness knew no sanity. The walls had eyes that pierced her skin to see her soul and find it lacking decency at least. They saw her mind and how broken it was, how it needed to be discarded for the betterment of Skyrim. Her mind truly had to be broken to believe this.

“You’re late,” Arngeir spoke up, frightening the Dragonborn in her own world. He continued, “but you’re here and you’ve retrieved the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.

Skathi almost forgot about that, but still had the horn. It would be unfortunate if she left behind somewhere, but she always kept it in her satchel. She fished it out and handed it over to the speaking monk.

“Well done. You have now passed all the trials,” he proclaimed, “Come with me. It is time for us to recognize you fully as Dragonborn.”

Skathi followed Arngeir to the foyer, where all the Greybeards were gathered, such as they were. She could not help but think now was when they yelled at her their disapproval. Not really, but everything horrible seemed likely when you are nervous.  
"You are ready to learn the final word of Unrelenting Force, ‘Dah,’ which means ‘Push’," Arngeir explained.

One of the monks stepped forward and said, “Dah,” and the familiar sight of dragon’s writ burned into the stone floor. Skathi stepped forward and absorbed the word into her. It felt like a lifetime since she had done this, but she was still able to embrace its power like she could not long ago.

“With all three words together, this Shout is much more powerful,” Arngeir explained, “Use it wisely. Master Wulfgar will now gift you with his knowledge of ‘Dah.’”

Once again, the familiar sensation of absorbing someone else’s knowledge without slaying them was not done for what felt like years upon years, but it really could not have been more than a fortnight. An exhausting fortnight, but no longer than that. She still accepted it like it was yesterday.

"You have completed your training, Dragonborn. We would Speak to you. Stand between us and prepare yourself. Few can withstand the unbridled Voice of the Greybeards. But you are ready."

Skathi stood her ground as the monks unleashed their Voices upon her. It was loud and sundering, an unwelcoming sensation. Against this force, few could stand against it, and Skathi was tempted to followed, but not fall. Not out of her own strength, but because it would be inappropriate to faint. She kept herself up by focusing on the words they Shouted, for which she could now understand as clear as her first language.

“Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon.

“By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old.

“You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it.”

Skathi was barely stood by the time they finished, but still stood. She did not fully understand what they said, but she could discern somethings. ‘Storm Crown’ was familiar, the title Talos took before he called himself ‘Tiber Septim’. She knew people said she was following in his footsteps, but she could not recall him ever being called ‘the Dragon of the North.’ She wondered what it meant.

“Dovahkiin. You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards and passed through unscathed,” Arngeir exclaimed, “High Hrothgar is open to you.”

At this point, Skathi decided to take the speaking monk aside to talk. “I need to learn the Shout used to defeat Alduin,” she asked.

He looked as though he had heard her cursed. “Where did you learn of that? Who have you been talking to?” he inquired.

“It was recorded on Alduin's Wall,” she explained.

That was enough for him to decided who was to blame. “The Blades! Of course,” he barked like a rapid dog, “They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?”

“The Blades are helping me. I'm not their puppet,” Skathi growled. In truth, it did feel like she was being used, but at least she knew it was for the right cause. What had he had to say?

“No, no, of course not,” Arngeir reluctantly reeled, “Forgive me, Dragonborn. I have been intemperate with you. But heed my warning: The Blades may say they serve the Dragonborn, but they do not. They never have.”

At least he could be comforted by her attitude about that idea. “The minute I see their goals no longer serve me and Skyrim, I’ll abandon them,” she explained, “So, can you teach me this Shout?”

“No. I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it,” he admitted without malice or pride for it, “It is called ‘Dragonrend,’ but its Words of Power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice.”

With such a forbidding statement, Skathi could only ask, “Why is Dragonrend so wretched?”

“It was created by those who had lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin's Dragon Cult,” he began to explain, “Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout. When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. In order to learn and use this Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself.”

That dangerous prospect imprinted on her, but she still needed to ask and dare to learn it, at least for Skyrim. “But If the Shout is lost, how can I defeat Alduin?”

“Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question, if he so chooses,” Arngeir stated.

Something about that name made an impression on her. “Who’s Paarthurnax?” she asked.

“He is our leader. He surpasses us all in his mastery of the Way of the Voice,” he answered.

“Why haven't I met Paarthurnax yet?” she asked again.

“He lives in seclusion on the very peak of the mountain,” the speaking monk explained, “He speaks to us only rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege.”

Must have been a strong monk to survive being on mountain peak and not be blown off the top. “I need to speak to Paarthurnax, then,” Skathi stated.

“You weren't ready. You still aren't ready,” Arngeir sighed, “But thanks to the Blades, you now have questions that only Paarthurnax can answer.”

He got up and ordered, “Come, we will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.”

* * *

**“Lok Vah Koor!”**

Skathi gave the Shout the Greybeards taught her and the winds parted. The higher one climbed the mountain, the further you entered its eternal storm. As such, they taught her a useful trick to reaching the peak with her Voice. Whenever the way seemed too impassable, all she had to do was use those three words and she could go further up the trail.

Less impassable, but still annoying were the frost wraiths. They flocked to the mountainside like crows over a graveyard. Nevertheless, Skathi had some experience with them and could deflect them fine enough. What was less fine was the cold. She liked the cold as much as anyone Nord, but this was horrific. Her furs were thick, but the biting winds pierced it all the same.

Once she reached the mountain peak, she found nothing. A curved wall like the one she read her first word in Dragon tongue on, but not a soul else. No one was there. Skathi jumped to the thought that Paarthurnax had gotten enough of this world and flung himself off to spare himself. Morbid, but altogether likely if she could not find him.

She was resigned to her failure when a pale dragon flew ‘round the peak. At the sight of it, Skathi drew her bow in battle ready. Before she could nock an arrow, the dragon landed in front of her. She pulled the string back to strike at less than ten feet away when it did not strike her.

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax,” he spoke, “Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah, my mountain?”

Skathi stood shocked at this. “I wasn't expecting you to be a dragon,” she stammered.

“I am as my father Akatosh made me,” Paarthurnax stated, “As are you, Dovahkiin.”

Well, since introductions were unnecessary, this got far easier. “I need to learn the Dragonrend Shout,” Skathi asked, “Can you teach me?”

"Drem. Patience,” the master Greybeard insisted, “There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov.”

The old dragon stood at is full height, a terrifying sight to behold. “By long tradition, the elder speaks first,” he explained, “Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!”

**“Yol Toor Shul!”**

Paarthurnax turned away from Skathi and unleashed a torrent of fire into the curved wall. It did not crack or crumble, but it did leave a word in the stone. When Skathi approached it, it flew into her and showed her the ancient knowledge of a Shout like those before, but this was a far different element than what she had before. Before, she wielded the wind, but now she knew flame.

“A gift, Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax remarked, “Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do.”

Ribbons like those the Greybeards exuded from the old dragon, but these were different. Skathi could not say with certainty what it was, but she would say it is. To her best ability, she felt it she was learning from a master. He had details and shorthand no simple tradesman would use. Even if it was an inaccurate description, it was still better than none.

“Now, show me what you can do,” Paarthurnax commanded, “Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!”

**“Yol!”**

Skathi Shouted and fire burst from out her mouth. It was a stranger sensation than her first Shout, but still not alien. It was not burning hot from her end, but a gentle warm. Perhaps that was just the cold numbing her to the point an inferno was hot spring water.

“Ah, yes!” Paarthurnax rejoiced as the flame bounced on his scales, “Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind.”

“Happy to help,” Skathi warily replied. She did not know what this meant to the dragon but worried it might mean more than meeting someone who speaks your first language again.

Eventually, the old dragon settled down again. “So. You have made your way here, to me,” he remarked, “No easy task for a joor, mortal. Even for one of Dovah Sos. Dragonblood.” He warily asked, “What would you ask of me?”

“Can you teach me the Dragonrend Shout?” Skathi asked again. She worried it would turn him feral at the thought of someone learning how to bring him and his brethren down again.

And he fully returned to his disappointing reality. “Ah. I have expected you. Prodah,” he remarked, “You would not come all this way for tinvaak with an old dovah. No. You seek your weapon against Alduin.”

“The Greybeards didn't want me to come at all,” the Dragonborn stated.

"Hmm. Yes. They are very protective of me,” he smirked if Skathi had to guess, “Bahlaan fahdonne. But I do not know the Thu'um you seek.”

He continued, “Krosis. It cannot be known to me. Your kind, joorre, mortals, created it as a weapon against the dov… the dragons. Our hadrimme, our minds cannot even,” he paused, searching for the right words, “comprehend its concepts.”

Another dead end. “How can I learn it, then?” she almost angrily asked.

"Drem. All in good time,” Paarthurnax replied, “First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu'um?”

“I live in this world,” she explained, “I don’t want it to end.”

He nodded. “Pruzah. As good a reason as any,” he remarked, “There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Perhaps this world is simply the Egg of the next kalpa? Lein vokiin? Would you stop the next world from being born?”

“The next world will have to take care of itself,” Skathi snapped. Even though she was reluctant to all this blood and death, it was better than letting this world die.

The old dragon nodded again. “Paaz. A fair answer,” he remarked, “Ro fus. Maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past Time's end. Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis. Those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer."

Skathi had not thought of that but discarded it immediately. She had no use for pondering ancient riddle right now. Maybe later.

He continued, “But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven, what you name Throat of the World?”

The Dragonborn shrugged. “This is the most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Zok revak strunmah,” Paarthurnax explained, “The great mountain of the world. Here the ancient Tongues, the first mortal masters of the voice, brought Alduin to battle and defeated him.”

“Using the Dragonrend Shout, right?” Skathi asked.

“Yes and no,” he replied, “Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to,” he paused again for the right words, “defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel, the Elder Scroll. They used it to,” he paused, “cast him adrift on the currents of Time.”

Skathi was full of questions. “Are you saying the ancient Nords sent Alduin forward in time?” she asked.

"Not intentionally,” he explained, “Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. Meyye. I knew better. Tiid bo amativ. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years, I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when.”

“How does any of this help me?” Skathi asked.

"Tiid krent. Time was,” he paused, “shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that Kel, that Elder Scroll back here, to the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound. With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to,” he paused, “cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.”

Now all Skathi had to be sure of was what an Elder Scroll was.

* * *

The seven-thousand steps were not an easy climb. Doing it twice in one day was exhausting. Skathi felt she was unwelcomed in the Greybeard’s temple after associating with the Blades, so she went down to Ivarstead for the night. Perhaps if she had asked for a bed at the top of High Hrothgar, she would not be so worn.

To recuperate, she was cooling her feet in Lake Geir. In the chill water bellow, she found some relief. She was tempted to throw herself into the river whole, but she knew in the fresh Autumn weather, she would surely die of cold. She was still tempted.

Despite her decision to embrace being Dragonborn, she was far from happy with it. She had grown a contempt for travelling and she had to do a lot of it of late. But going from one end of the province to the other could be tolerable if it did not always have to end in violence. All she was doing was going from one end of Skyrim to the other and killing people. She was practically a traveling serial killer.

And there was nothing she was fighting for. She fought for everyone else, but not herself. As if you could fight for things that did not exist. She had no world of her own, no home to go back to. She did not want to go back to Falkreath, nor did she think she could. She killed and eaten the flesh of the jarl’s steward, both acts of great stigma.

And it was not as if there was anything she wanted to go back there. She could not remember everything about her childhood, but she knew it was not a good one. Her parents were always working at Gray Pines Goods and she was always shooed away so they could work. Her sister was better company, but she was surely dead by now for being their only suspect in the steward’s death. Skathi hoped it was not so, but it was most likely.

If only she had a home to go to. The warmth of a hearth she could call her own on a cold day. A rug for plant her worn feet while children played with a tempered dog. A blanket thrown on her shoulders by someone that loved her. None of it could be and she was only hurting herself by thinking such fantasies were possible. There was no hope for hearth and home for her.

There was nothing in this world that could even confirm that she could be happy. Everyone was only after themselves, cutthroat if pushed and liars to anyone who thought they could benefit from following them. On one side of Skyrim, an empire trying to grasp at their last embers of power, but not the long arms to keep it. On the other, an opportunistic warlord wished to gain fame and glory on other people’s bodies to tell himself he was still a good person. And on all sides, fools that followed them, loyally or not.

But who was Skathi to judge? She was just a bad as them, maybe worse. She should have been out there, fighting dragons instead of laying around doing nothing. She wanted a house and home, but do not work for it, nor do anything for anyone. She did not deserve such an honor or responsibility as this. She was once again tempted to let Lake Geir decide her fate.

But no. No. She was not going to do that. Like many times before, her death wish would go ungranted. There was still much to do. She had to find an Elder Scroll, she had to learn Dragonrend, she had to slay Alduin. And then, and only then, could she die.  
She pulled herself out of the lake and went to the inn for dinner and a bed.


	18. Chapter 17

Winterhold was deemed the best place to find an Elder Scroll. The Greybeards said, “such blasphemies have always been the stock in trade of the mages of Winterhold”, so that’s where Skathi had to go. To her knowledge, there was a mages’ college up there, so a presumably mystic device such as an Elder Scroll could surely be found there.

What was not so simple was the border patrol. The Legion had recently taken Winterhold and Fort Kastav was being used to hold the line. Traveling along the roads was difficult this way, but otherwise was far more dangerous. It still made their prodding unwelcome, especially when they figured out that she wasn’t a citizen of Eastmarch. Better than throwing herself into the wilderness again.

Upon approaching Winterhold, it was clear the city had seen better days. Skathi had heard the tales, that a chunk of the city had fallen into the sea years ago, but she would assume that would still leave something. No, what was left was the size of a small town, and even that left a few buildings in ruin. To think that this was once the capital of all of Skyrim. What could do such a thing?

After a brief stroll through the city and Skathi arrived at bridge leading into the college, the only way in. As such, it was inconvenient that one of the mages blocked her path. A High Elf with fist at her sides stood in the way. It was likely unwise to fight her, both due to her skill and her proximity to the guards. Skathi dismounted and approached the guard.

“Cross the bridge at your own peril!” the mage exclaimed, “The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!”

Skathi sighed. “Can you let me in?” she asked, “I’m looking for an Elder Scroll.”

The mage’s eyes tightened. “It is true there are some here who have spent years studying the accumulated knowledge of the scrolls,” she explained, “But what you seek does not come easily and can destroy those without a strong will.”

Skathi frowned. “Can you let me in?” she asked again.

The mage crossed her arms. “Not just anyone is allowed inside,” she stated, “Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will.”

“I don’t wanna learned magic,” Skathi admitted, “Would you grant entry to the Dragonborn?”

The mage’s eyes went wide “Dragonborn?” she stammered, “It's been so long since we've had any contact with the Greybeards.” She continued, “Do you really have the Voice? I would be most impressed to see that.”

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

The mage got out of the way just in time to dodge the Shout. The force threw loose stone up the bridge and off the side. The mage stood there shocked. It was easy to assume she had never seen a demonstration of a Shout in her life, especially one so powerful.

“Alright,” she remarked, “The library’s in the main building, first door on the right, up the stairs.”

“Got it,” Skathi replied, “Sorry.”

A little guilty from the demonstration, Skathi still followed the directions right and found the library fine. What she wasn’t expecting was to find an Orc at the librarian’s desk. He was an older man, had the air of a bear, rough and impassable. Skathi had killed bears before.

“You are now in the Arcaneum, of which I am in charge,” he explained in a gravelly voice, “It might as well be my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcaneum, and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Now, do you require assistance?"

Skathi nodded to show respect. “I'm looking for an Elder Scroll,” she explained.

“And what do you plan to do with it?” he inquired, “Do you even know what you're asking about, or are you just someone's errand boy?”

“No, tell me more about the Elder Scrolls,” the Dragonborn admitted.

“I knew it,” the librarian growled, “Everyone comes in here, expecting my help, but they don't even have the proper questions.” He continued, “An Elder Scroll is an instrument of immense knowledge and power. To read an Elder Scroll, a person must have the most rigorously trained mind, or else risk madness. Even so, the Divines usually grant the reader's sight as a price.”

“A price for what?” Skathi warily asked.

“The simplest way to put it is ‘knowledge,’ but there's nothing simple about an Elder Scroll,” the librarian explained, “It's a reflection of all possible futures and all possible pasts. Each reader sees different reflections through different lenses and may come away with a very different reading. But at the same time, all of it is true. Even the falsehoods. Especially the falsehoods.”

Looks like she would need to flex her power again. “What about the Dragonborn?” Skathi inquired.

“What about- wait. Are you?” he stammered, “Were you the one the Greybeards were calling?”

Skathi noted how these mages seemed to change their attitudes quickly when they heard about that. “I need to find one and was told you could help,” she stated.

“I don't know who told you that, but I'll do what I can,” the librarian offered, “What we do have are plenty of books.”

He moved over to the bookcases. “I'll bring everything we have on them, but it's not much, so don't get your hopes up,” he admitted, “It's mostly lies, leavened with rumor and conjecture.”

He brought two books on the desk. “Here you go. Try not to spill anything on them,” he barked.

It was going to be a while, so Skathi sat down at one of the tables and started reading. The first book, Effects of the Elder Scrolls, was straight forward in describing what it was like to read one. Those who knew nothing of the Scrolls would see nothing and nothing would happen to them. What was worse is if you could read it, you would go blind without preparation. The Cult of the Ancestor Moth could however read them continuously with preparation, but still go blind with time. Maybe they should have found a different way of learning Dragonrend.

The second book, Rumination on the Elder Scrolls, was insane. If the first was the average book for intellectuals, this was pure gibbering. So much poetry and no plain speak. It was not at all useful and whoever wrote this was probably mad.  
Skathi held up the book to the librarian and stated, “This book is incomprehensible.”

He squinted to see the title. “Aye, that's the work of Septimus Signus,” he nodded, “He's the world's master of the nature of Elder Scrolls, but,” he paused for a moment, “well. He's been gone for a long while. Too long.”

“He's dead?” Skathi asked.

“Oh no. I hope not,” the librarian remarked with genuine concern. “But even I haven't seen him in years, and we were close. Became obsessed with the Dwemer. Took off north saying he had found some old artifact. Haven't seen him since. Somewhere in the ice fields, if you want to try to find him.”

And once again, a dead end turned into another lead. Seemed common in Skathi’s life.

* * *

It was a long ride from the Reach to Windhelm. Jeanne had to lay over in Whiterun before going the rest of the way. Her and the rest of the soldiers going to the city. Among the injured and retiring was her, on time out. It would humiliate a lesser person, but the adopted Nord would weather this trial as well as could be expected.

To her understanding, a host was deployed to Morthal in a desperate attempt by an Arrald Frozen-Heart to claim glory. It was a thousand strong versus two thousand stronger. To no one’s surprise, they didn’t have a new hold and rumor had it that he would need a new head. The results were that the warband was nearly spent, much to everyone’s disappointment. The war couldn’t be sustained for long, not with the undertrained and undermanned army they had.

Upon arriving in Windhelm, the men went right to the barracks to rest. Jeanne’s immediate thought was that she didn’t realize she’d missed Windhelm’s cold. No clue why; it was the chilliest winds she ever felt, but perhaps she was just moody. Considering her experiences in the past week, she had every right to be a little moody.

Before she could open the door to Candlehearth Hall, there was a scream in her night. Jeanne drew her sword and bolted to the source, the cemetery. She almost slipped three times as she came upon the scene. A woman, stripped of her clothes, dead on a grave.

There were guards and shocked bystanders already there, one spotting Jeanne. “Hold it there. Keep your distance,” the guard ordered.

“What happened here?” Jeanne asked.

“Another girl killed,” the guard bitterly explained, “This is Susanna, from Candlehearth Hall. Served me a drink just a few nights ago,” he paused, perhaps out of the shock, “but I can't say I knew her. Susanna's the third. It's always the same: young girl, killed at night, body torn up.”

Jeanne knew Susanna much the same. Susanna the Wicked, as she was called, though she deserved neither the name nor this fate. The Breton couldn’t believe Ulfric would allow a serial killer in his city, but perhaps this was a recent development. No matter the cause, this wasn’t something that could be tolerated.

“Are the murders being investigated?” she asked, afraid for their lives.

“We're stretched thin as it is with the war,” the guard seethed, “Nobody has the time to spend on this. Not pleasant, but it's the truth.” If the battle at Fort Kastav was to be believed, they were quite busy with the Imperial invasion force. Shocking that now the Stormcloaks were on the defensive.

There were three witnesses of note in the cemetery. The first was an Imperial man with the appearance of someone who lived quite finely, but a closer examination yielded fake finery. The second was a beggar woman, worn and wearing clothes that surely couldn’t protect from the cold. And lastly, the third was a priest, though nothing said which god she served. Perhaps one of them was a murderer, perhaps not.

The witnesses were muttering something about how sad it was to see another go when Jeanne interrupted. “Did you see what happened here?” she inquired.

The Imperial answered first. “Sorry. I thought I saw a fellow running away but didn't get a good look at him.”

The beggar went second. “I heard a scream and came running, but she was already,” she shivered, “like this,” she looked away in horror, “when I got here.” She seemed like she would shatter.

The priest was last. “Eehhh,” she thought, “no. Sorry. But I did notice that her coin purse was still intact, so whoever did this wasn't after gold. I'm going to keep prepared the body, if you'll excuse me.” She was surely a priest of Arkay, as she went about to handle the body.

The witnesses didn’t have much, but it would do for now. “Take this for your troubles,” Jeanne said as she handed a fistful of coins to the beggar.

The beggar took this gold in both hands, shaking with excitement. “Oh, thank you!” she cried, “Divines bless your kind heart!”

Meanwhile, the Imperial wasn’t particularly happy with it. “Why does she get money and we don’t?” he questioned, motioning toward the coins like a child about to take it.

Jeanne slapped the Imperial’s hands away and was ready to slap his face if he tried again. “If you want coin,” she barked, “you should pray to Zenithar for guidance, not Namira.” Hopefully, he made time to read Beggar Prince once in his life.

He stormed off in a huff. Good riddance. Jeanne turned to the guard to talk about her findings, as few as there were.

“I've spoken to the witnesses.”

“Just like always,” he seethed, “nobody saw anything useful. The bastard's escaped again.”

“There might be more to this if you'll let me help,” she offered.

“Look, friend,” the guard snapped, obviously in a state that he didn’t noticed the officer’s uniform, “if you think you can do better than the legion of guards, be my guest. You'll need to talk to Jorleif, though. We can't just let anyone go around claiming to be on official business. If he's willing, then we'll talk.”

Jeanne decided to leave him to stew. She needed liquor. Drinking in Candlehearth Hall, she realized she didn’t have the authority or skills to carry out an investigation; she was just some girl from High Rock who ran off to join a foreign army. Upon that realization was one that she was just some child playing whatever game she fancied for the moment.

She tried to wash these thoughts away with drinks, but they just had their mead piss water. The ale didn’t help, they didn’t have any whisky and their alto wine was weak. Drink wasn’t going to work, but she was desperate to make it. And then her thoughts went to how much shame her parents must feel to have a drunk for a daughter. Whatever was going on in Jeanne’s head, it didn’t make much sense.

The next thing she knew, Jeanne was laying on her side on a bed, the smell of something burning in the air and a bloody sword on the floor. She wasn’t sure what was going on. This lack of sense didn’t seem like it would be useful for murder investigations. No clue how to end the night, so just fell asleep on the bed. She would find out what in Oblivion was going on tomorrow.


	19. Chapter 18

When Jeanne awoke to a noise, her first impression was pain. Mostly in her head, but the rest of her body didn’t feel great either. Her legs left like she’d been marching all day, her arms left like she lost control of her flames, her stomach felt like she’d swallowed needles, and her chest left as though it had been stabbed. Maybe that sword was there for a reason.

However, her pain wasn’t the most notable thing around her. No, when she turned her head away from the innocuous wooden ceiling, she found a door of bars, the unmistakable sign of a prison cell. She was in jail, her armor replaced with linen shirt and trousers. She wasn’t sure how she got here, probably something to do with last night, but she knew she wanted out.

Entering her view of the door, the fine Nord she saw when she first came to Windhelm came to her cell. It was Jorleif, Jarl Ulfric’s steward, the de facto leader of Windhelm in his Jarl’s absence. He carried himself heavily, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. With the Legion on their doorstep, it wasn’t unearned.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

Jeanne got up, much to her displeasure, to answer him. “Well, I was drunk, so I don’t remember a lot of what I did,” she explained.

“Well, that makes this harder,” Jorleif remarked as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “From what we can discern, you began getting rowdy with the other patrons. You ended up punching some of Rolff’s lot and stabbed him between the Molag Bals and the Azura.”

Jeanne’s smirked, but it disappeared as he said, “We found you in one of the rented rooms with a bloody sword and stab wound in your chest.”

She wasn’t sure how to take it. Had someone tried to kill her? Had this Rolff decided to get some revenge for his wound of such humiliation? Or had she taken the blade to herself? Of that time, she could barely remember anything, let alone what she was thinking. However, this came to be, it wasn’t a cheery thought that her, who had fought in three battles and hadn’t fallen, would’ve died in a bar with less sobriety than some Daedra Princes I could mention.

“What’s to be my punishment?” Jeanne asked.

“We’re still investigating,” Jorleif explained, “If we find that you did this unprompted, you’ll be held until Ulfric’s return, at which point he’ll decide your fate. If Rolff and his fellows were at fault, you will only spend the day in the cell. We’ll see.”

* * *

The wind blew with a strength that could throw trees and carried a cold that would sap the life from even the heartiest Nords. The ground was a series of ice plates, some more solid than others. One false move and you’d fall into the Sea of Ghosts, a name it surely deserved for the lives it took from sailors over the years. It was dangerous to even attempt to cross it, especially if you didn’t use a boat.

Skathi was tempting fate by entering the ice fields. She knew two things: few who traveled here lived and Septimus Signus was the only lead she had for an Elder Scroll. If he was dead, fallen through the ice, frozen or starved to death, she was going to need another lead. Though judging by his book, he might not be useful alive.

Before stepping onto another plate, she made it a point to poke it and try to see if it was steady enough for her weight. When she did, she leapt like a sabre cat and landed like a boulder, throwing the balance off, but she adjusted fast, as she had to or fall into the sea. Whenever there was a gap too far to jump, the Dragonborn would “Wuld” across. She really wanted to learn some more words for Whirlwind Spirit.

After what was the travel equivalent of a walk to the shops for Skathi, she came upon an iceberg with a trapdoor in it, flanked by torches. At least she could safely say someone was here. At some point. Maybe not Septimus, but at least someone. Probably warmer in there than out in the elements.

Through the trapdoor was a cave. At the end of that cave, there was a cube of bronze. It was the size of a house, a Dwarven contraption to be sure. In its shadow was a man in a hooded robe with a beard sticking out, and his makeshift dwellings. Hopefully, this was Septimus.

“When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex,” he rambled.

Skathi was thoroughly sure this was Septimus. “I heard you know about Elder Scrolls,” she stated warily.

“The Empire,” he spoke like a madman with two words, “They absconded with them. Or so they think. The ones they saw. The ones they thought they saw. I know of one. Forgotten. Sequestered. But I cannot go to it, not poor Septimus, for I, I have arisen beyond its grasp.”

Yup, this man was Septimus. Even if he didn’t say his name, it was easy to figure that out. “You have an Elder Scroll? Here?” Skathi asked.

“I've seen enough to know their fabric,” he explained, “The warp of air, the weft of time. But no, it is not in my possession.”

“So,” Skathi awkwardly asked, “where is the Scroll?”

“Here,” Septimus stated, pointing downwards, “Well, here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, it's all nearby.”

“Are you,” Skathi wondered, “all right?”

“Oh, I am well. I will be well,” the wizard grinned, “Well to be within the will inside the walls."

This was getting her nowhere and she was getting impatient. “Can you help me get the Elder Scroll or not?” she asked in frustration.

He turned his head to one side and raised an eyebrow while looking her dead in the face. It was unsettling. “One block lifts the other,” the old bat explained, “Septimus will give you what you want, but you must bring him something in return.”

Skathi sighed. So, it was going to be like this. “What do you want?” she asked.

The wizard looked at the bronze cube. “You see this masterwork of the Dwemer. Deep inside their greatest knowings,” he explained, “Septimus is clever among men, but he is but an idiot child compared to the dullest of the Dwemer. Lucky then they left behind their own way of reading the Elder Scrolls. In the depths of Blackreach one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach? ‘Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept.’”

“No, I haven’t” Skathi replied, “Where is this ‘Blackreach’?”

“Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep,” he gibbered, “Tower Mzark. Alftand. The point of puncture, of first entry, of the tapping. Delve to its limits, and Blackreach lies just beyond. But not all can enter there. Only Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock.”

Well, that was helpful. “How do I get in?” Skathi asked, feeling less sane after this conversation.

The biggest grin appeared on Septimus’s bearded face. “Two things I have for you. Two shapes. One edged, one round,” he stated, holding out a sphere and cube, “The round one, for tuning. Dwemer music is soft and subtle, and needed to open their cleverest gates. The edged lexicon, for inscribing. To us, a hunk of metal. To the Dwemer, a full library of knowings. But,” he paused in sadness, “empty. Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube.

He looked dead in Skathi face and whispered, “Trust Septimus. He knows you can know.”

Skathi took the sphere and cube. She wasn’t sure what she needed these for. Not even at the end of their conversation and she wasn’t sure what he was saying. She knew the words he was saying but wasn’t sure how they went together for a coherent thought. She might not have been part of civilization for years, but she knew madness when she saw it.

While she was here, Skathi thought of a question she had been meaning to ask. “What is an Elder Scroll?”

A kindly smile was on his face at the question. "You look to your left; you see one way. You look to your right, you see another,” he remarked, “But neither is any harder than the opposite. But the Elder Scrolls,” he paused for the right words, “they look left and right in the stream of time. The future and past are as one. Sometimes they even look up. What do they see then? What if they dive in? Then the madness begins.”

That made no sense whatsoever, but at least it was good to know he at least read an Elder Scroll once.

* * *

And so, Jeanne sent the day in the cell, awaiting her sentencing. It was lonely, as no other inmates were there at the time, and the guards didn’t speak to her. They wouldn’t, as they saw her disgrace. An officer of the Stormcloak warband, one that hadn’t fallen in battle, was expecting punishment for a drunken mistake.

She wasn’t sure if they would miss her back home in High Rock. She was just another child of her house, not particularly special or anything. Perhaps she was special in her parents’ eyes, but they had six other children of far better acclaim in court. No one would care if she died except as an embarrassment to her family, a rebel against the Empire that couldn’t hold her liquor.

The bards would have a tale of a time trying to write the song. Yes, she had gained acclaim in the battles of Whiterun and Falkreath but led a rout in Markarth and drunkenly stabbed a man. Whatever songs they decided to write and sing for as long as they cared to sing it, there would always be someone who wasn’t satisfied with it for misremembering her deeds.

But what would Jeanne have to say about her life to whoever came to take her? Arkay, Kynareth or whatever god took pity on her when she died would almost certainly want to hear it. If she had to be fair, she would have to say that it was foolish to run off to join the Stormcloaks, and despite the glory she gained, she wouldn’t do it again if she had the chance to live it again. The glory may be golden but weighted by the blood of those who didn’t deserve her blade.

All in all, the wait wasn’t agonizing because she wanted to get out. It burned her because she wanted to get this over with. Free her, punish her, she didn’t care; she wanted to know her fate.

And she would know it. After her third exercise routine that day, she heard someone entering the jail. They walked without the clanking of utensils on a plate, so they weren’t here with her dinner. They walked alone, so they weren’t the next shift. It could only be who it was: Jorleif.

“You’re free to go,” he stated, unlocking the door.

Jeanne let go of the beam in her cell and landed on the floor with grace. “What happened last night?” she asked.

“Rolff and his thugs were harassing you over your uniform,” the steward explained, “saying a Breton couldn’t be a Stormcloak. You shouted back about things that were only half related to their insults. Clearly drunk, a waitress escorted you to a room to cool off when Rolff’s group jumped you. Before they could do anything, you stabbed Rolff and threw his men off you. The waitress ran to get the guards and found you with the stab wound when she came back.”

Finally, she knew what happened last night. “What’s one really useful waitress,” Jeanne remarked, “Remind me to give her a massive tip.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Jorleif replied, a serious expression on his face.

Wow, Nords really are barbaric. “If I’m innocent, then I’d like to ask about something,” Jeanne stated.

He sighed, probably seeing some terrible question ahead of him. “Very well,” he muttered, “what would you like?”

“I've heard about these murders.”

The steward’s expression got far grimmer at the topic. “These are difficult times indeed,” he sighed, “when men stalk their brethren like beasts. My men are stretched thin as it is. If you offer your aid, I gladly accept. The guards will be told to assist you as necessary. I'm happy to lend a hand as much as I can, as well.”

Jeanne was about to leave when Jorleif added, “And don’t just implicate Rolff; he’s already getting punishment for his actions.”

That wasn’t in her plans, but she would keep it in mind. First thing she needed to do was examine the crime scene.


	20. Chapter 19

At the start of the day, Jeanne was at the cemetery, checking the scene of the crime. Despite it being a day and a half old, the blood was still staining the ground, dried like ink. Though harder to discern from the dirt, the snow and light color stone made it easy to follow. Jeanne decided to track the blood stains to where they led, perhaps finding where this sloppy killer’s effects.

They led out of the cemetery and into Valunstrad. She heard the district was perhaps the oldest area of Windhelm, which itself is perhaps the oldest mannish city in Tamriel. It was built by Ysgramor himself when he came to Skyrim for revenge. It’s rumored the city was built over the grave of his son, but she hadn’t seen the evidence. Would there be evidence? She didn’t know.

The trail of dried blood led to one of the houses. Unlike the others on the block, it was empty. No light came out and windows and a peek inside revealed it abandoned. Odd that someone would use this house for their murderous deeds, but never use it. An obvious lead, so Jeanne went straight to Jorleif to report her findings.

The steward was shocked that it was the murderer’s base of operations. “That was Friga Shatter-Shield's old place. It's been abandoned ever since she was killed,” he muttered, “I think her mother, Tova, has the key.”  
“Can you think of anyone else that would have the key?” Jeanne asked.

“No, there shouldn’t be anyone.”

That wasn’t a good sign. No one was supposed to be there, but there it was still being used. The murder’s skillset then involved what they needed to get into places they shouldn’t be. Forging keys or stealing them or never needing to use them, it wasn’t something to put anyone at ease. A nightmare for all who would walk the night.

In that, Tova Shatter-Shield was an essential piece of the puzzle. To Jeanne’s understanding, the Shatter-Shields were an affluent family in the city, something around shipping. They had suffered much indignity of late, with murderers and thieves taking what they held dear. If Jeanne was to do right by them, she would catch the one who killed them.

Jeanne approached the grieving mother at the market, barely paying attention to the produce. “Excuse me,” the Breton inquired, “I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s alright,” Tova replied, putting on a smile Jeanne could see behind, “What did you want to talk to me about.”

“I have some questions about your daughter,” Jeanne stated dryly.

Her facade fell away and the grief was more obvious. “I'm sorry,” she muttered, “she was very dear to me, and it's rather painful to think about. I'd rather not talk about my daughter, if you'll excuse me.”

Tova was about to leave when Jeanne lightly took her boney arm. “Please,” she asked, “I'm trying to find out who did this. I was hoping you'd help.”

The woman didn’t struggle and turned to face the adopted Nord. “Well, all right. What exactly do you need to know?” she asked.

“I'd like to investigate her house, but I'll need the key,” Jeanne explained, awkwardly. She didn’t want to hurt her, but there wasn’t any way around it.

“Hjerim?” Tova said confused, “Well, I'm not sure what you think you'll find there, but you're welcome to have a look.”

The grieving mother took a key from her pocket and handed it over to Jeanne. She had another question. “Can you think of anyone else who would have this key?”

“No, not that I can think of.”

“Okay,” Jeanne nodded, “I'm sorry to have troubled you.”

“Good day,” Tova replied.

It was awkward to talk to a grieving mother. She had never met someone who had lost a child before. She never had a death in the family or knew much of anyone well enough to say if they grieved. Pain was unfamiliar to her in High Rock, but she had become well-aware of it in Skyrim.

Jeanne entered house of Hjerim, a question in the back of her mind as to why someone would name a house. It was immediately obvious that someone was here, despite cobwebs and little furniture. There were a few empty bottles of mead on the floor, something anyone with any decency would clean up if they were removing the furniture. Someone was using this for something, but she wasn’t sure what.

The impromptu detective searched the house up and down and found a journal, if nothing else. It was horrifying. It read as though the one who did this was excited that they were making progress in his efforts. They seemed to be using flesh magic and necromancy with the remains of those they killed, though how they got ahold of them was anyone’s guess. They mentioned going to Winterhold, of how they wasted time with magic they already knew for too long, though how long wasn’t specified. It had surprised Jeanne that those renegades didn’t approve of this.

Continuing the search, Jeanne found her way in a small room with a wardrobe. She poked around and found a switch. Her pleasant memories of playing in her tutor’s wardrobe were interrupted by the sight of what was behind this one’s secret room. It was an alter with bones and flesh and blood and morbid instruments scatter around it. It was from more than one body, as a red bones and dry bones laid together, some redundant as two ribcages. This sight turned Jeanne’s head to vomit.

A cloth to her mouth, the amateur mage searched the secret room for anything. She found another journal just a morbid as the first. It spoke of body parts as specifically and coldly as a grocery list Jeanne would write for servants. Whatever this monster was using the remains for, it was clear they would kill anyone for the sake of their goal.

On a shelf, Jeanne found something a little tamer. A necklace with a turquoise skull for a jewel. It laid on top of a pile of pamphlet warning of a “butcher” that would come in the night and kill you. There was someone by the name of Viola Giordano who knew this was the work of a serial killer and was trying to warn others of their terror while acquiring information about them. Seemed to spook the killer enough to hoard these and keep others from seeing them.

The necklace was strange, and Jeanne would follow up on it, but the pamphlet would have to be investigated. Useful information might be going to the wrong person and she needed it.

* * *

Apparently, Viola Giordano wasn’t a good person to be part of a murder investigation. Nosy, stingy, boisterous and oblivious as a fish were all things that could be said about her. She was mostly known for pining the entire tree for a widower sea captain of less advanced years. The fact she was trying to find the Butcher, as she called them, was as reassuring as the word “Oops”.

Jeanne found Viola trailing the widowed Captain Lonely-Gale from around ten feet back. Trailing wasn’t the most appropriate word; stalking, more like. Jeanne took her skinny arm to get her attention and she yelped. That alerted Lonely-Gale of her presence and he bolted to the market.

“Oh, great,” Viola seethed, tearing her arm from the Breton’s grasp, “There goes my one true love.”

“There’s an ancient Colovian proverb,” Jeanne remarked, “never put your dick in crazy.”

The middle-aged woman slapped the young warrior. “Don’t you use that language around me!” she barked.

The idea to use a different language had crossed her mind, but Jeanne decided it wasn’t worth being that petty. “Then how will I ask you about the Butcher?” she asked, rubbing the bruise as she feigned leaving.

The frog like woman’s eyes bulged in their sockets. “No, wait!” she called, “Are you really looking to the Butcher?”

“Yes, under the guards’ authority,” Jeanne stated, “You aren’t though.”

Viola rolled her eyes. “They say they're too busy with the war,” she remarked, “I say what good is winning a war if we're still terrorized by one of our own?”

There was so much to unpack with that. The hold guard and the Stormcloak warband were two distinct entities, but the recent movements by the Legion had caused the two to work closely together. As a member of the latter, Jeanne was insulted by the implication that this was somehow her fault. She fought this war, not this wrinkly bag of blood and cartilage that calls itself woman sailors would fall for.

“I assume you wrote these,” Jeanne remarked, holding up the pamphlet she found in Hjerim.

The already pale woman got paler than the snow. “What are you going to do?” Viola inquired, appearing to fear for her life.

“First, I’m going to ask you to stop,” the Breton stated, “Next, I’m going to follow up on some leads.”

The other lead was the necklace. Jeanne had very little experience with designs like these. However, if magics the College of Winterhold would disapprove of were involved, perhaps a mage of the college would be useful. There was one such mage in Windhelm: Wuunferth the Unliving. The name cast immediate suspicious.

Wuunferth could be found in the palace halls. Unlike what that would sound like as one who lived in High Rock, these were dark and tight to even a Breton. No windows to cast natural light or show the way in the near labyrinthian passageways of the palace. Perhaps the architects thought making it confusing and small, no enemies could effectively move in the halls compared to those who lived there. Clever, but bothersome.

Eventually, Wuunferth’s lodgings could be found. The shelves and tables were littered with skulls and gems of whatever use the court wizard could find for them. He had a table most mages used for enchantments, both for learning and applying them. The chamber in general was a little refuge for the arcane in this city and Jeanne had used this to learn many techniques for destruction magic.

The old man she knew as Wuunferth looked up from his book and gave a greeting of, “Ah, Hawksly. Are you ready for the expert level spells?”

“I don’t know,” Jeanne admitted, “but that’s not relevant right now. I have some materials I’d like you to look over.”

The mage apprentice handed over the journals and the necklace to her trainer. He took a moment to read the books, scanning every word with thorough intent. When they were read, he examined the necklace closely and was seemingly disturbed that he was even touching it. He clearly knew what these were.

“I know this well,” Wuunferth explained, “Or at least, I've heard of it. There is necromancy at the heart of this for sure.”

“I know,” Jeanne replied, “I found what appeared to be materials for a necromantic ritual in Hjerim.”

“Hjerim?” the court wizard repeated with a raised eyebrow, “That place was supposed to be abandoned.”

Interesting how many people knew this. “Any clue who would be able to get a key for that place?” Jeanne inquired.

The old mage thought for a moment. “No, I don’t keep track of these things,” he admitted, “Maybe the family, but the killer took their daughter first. With how much grief they have, it’s illogical for them to be the killers. Unless they’re faking it, but I’m sure the only dirt on them is how they treat their employees.”

Yes, it did seem unlikely for them to kill their own child, but that was never considered. “So, what can we do now?” Jeanne inquired.

He perked up at that mention. "I've been noting a pattern to when the killings happen,” he explained, “Now that we know they're tied into some sort of necromantic ritual; I think I know when the next might occur.”

He opened a small book and flipped through the pages to specific spot. “Let's see. From a Loredas of Last Seed until a Middas of Heartfire,” he muttered, “it will happen soon. Very soon. Keep watch in the Stone Quarter tomorrow night. That's almost certainly where the killer will strike next.”

Good to know. “Thank you for your assistance,” Jeanne replied. She took the journals and necklace with her.

The fact Wuunferth was so open about this probably meant he was either innocent or guilty and trying to throw her off. Of course, he would need a reason for these things. Jeanne currently couldn’t think of a reason to do these things. There may have been something she couldn’t think of, but there wasn’t any way she could think to check that.

Of course, there was something else she could follow up on. Those instruments at Hjerim had to have come from somewhere. If she could find who would have them or where someone could get them was imperative. She would have to act quickly if Wuunferth was to believe; the killer would strike soon, and she needed to stop them just in time.

* * *

Skathi arrived at the Dwemer ruin of Alftand. From what she could presume, it was some sort of outpost in the days of Dwarven civilization. It seemed unlike a city; too small, but who was she to judge? She could, however, judge when someone else had been there. Scaffolding is a dead giveaway.  
There was no obvious entrance to the ruin, but instead a cave in the rockface surround it. Entering it, it seemed people were here, but abandoned it. Wheelbarrows stiff with disuse, crates and barrels blended in frost, and cold bedrolls about.

And blood. The place looked in ruin, as though a fight was there. Just a little deeper in and there was disturbed snow and broken wood and stained red snow around a cold campfire. What violent end did these poor souls meet? Were the tales of Dwarven automatons true? Possible, what with dragons being real.

Deeper in, someone was speaking. Raving scared and angry. It sounded like the voice of fresh murder.

Skathi turned a corner, keeping to the shadows, and found a wretched scene. There was Khajiit with bloodstained, rambling on about why his brother before him was dead. He argued with the corpse about hiding the Skooma, how he could’ve still been alive if he was a little more generous. And then he saw Skathi.

Wild eyes, he stared straight at the intruder. “What? Who is this, brother?” he sneered, darting his gaze between the corpse and Skathi, “Another of the smoothskins looking for food? But this one wasn't trapped with us.”

The madman pulled a woodsman’s axe from his side and swung it at Skathi, her being just able to dodge it. She took her knife and put it to his stomach. He hissed and started clawing his attacker. He scratched and bit, drawing blood. Skathi stabbed again and again until he was limp. His body fell and the blood that was on Skathi’s armor was now on the snow.

This type of bloody violence came too easy but left far harder for Skathi. Times like Helgen or the Thalmor Embassy, they were not who she wanted to be. She didn’t want to kill anyone. Why was she forced to kill again and again? When would all this just end?  
Still, she soldiered further into the cave, perhaps to find the Elder Scroll or die.

As she went in further and further, the icy cave gave way to far more familiar stone halls and pillars. They were Dwarven in design, old and scratchy, but sturdy and golden. The ice still permeated every nook and cranny of the stonework, but you could at least tell it was no longer a cave.

And then there was a noise. Strange, clicking and tinkling, like daggers doing a dance. Skathi turned her head to see a spider-like thing, golden and lifeless, but living. Some sort of contraption was spinning on top of it, like nothing she’s seen before. An automaton if ever there was one. It didn’t seem to notice her, but an arrow was the only way to make sure of it.

Skathi loosed an arrow to puncture its hide, but it only bounced off. There was a dent, but it still lived. Now it was aware, as it turned and faced Skathi to strike. It pounced and tried to stick its pincers into her skin, but she remembered the gyro on top and tried to stab it, break it off. With enough prying, the spider’s movement was ended, falling limp on top of the Nord.

Skathi threw off the gold spider corpse and went further in still. She came to a far more open room with light at the center. Perhaps she stepped on the wrong stone because something fell out a golden hole in the wall. It was a sphere, but then it stood up. Bows would be of no use, unless she aimed for its weak points, none of with she knew for certain. It was obvious then what she had to do.

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

The automaton was thrown onto the wall by the unrelenting force to the sound of cracking metal. Seeing this opportunity, Skathi drew her sword and jammed it into the machinery, breaking it apart. From the other side of the room, another standing sphere appear. Her throat was still sore from the Shout, so she ran around it and wacked its torso. With enough effort, she broke the contraption and it fell on the ground.

Deeper and deeper into the ruins, she encountered many more spiders and spheres, all of which died now thanks to some well-placed arrows. It was nothing she couldn’t handle. Something that did give her pause though was a strange rack, weaved with a black fleshy material she had never seen. Someone did this. Was this the Falmer? It was known the fallen Elves tended to roost in Dwarven ruins.

Eventually, there was only one way forward: a ledge. Any other doorway was a dead end and the ramps down were broken. At the end of this ledge, an Orc corpse lay in its own blood. Skathi figured it was time to commit to this path, the only way she could think of that would go somewhere. So, she jumped and landed on her feet. How did this Orc fowl that up?

She might not have. Down the ramp, she found a creature. It stood like a person, but it didn’t look like one. Its skin was wrinkled white bag over lanky bones. It wore no clothes, but a loincloth and a quiver made from a strange hide. Its ears were long like an Elf’s. Surely, this was a Falmer. There was no reasoning with it, so Skathi nocked an arrow.

And then the Falmer’s head shot. It heard that. It pulled the string of a fleshy bow with its own arrow and Skathi loosed hers. It impacted straight in its chest, but it was still alive enough to let its arrow loose. Missed. Skathi knocked another arrow, this one aimed for its head and it met its target well. The creature fell down the ramp and into the waters bellow.

There were more Falmer still. They were just as hard to dispose of, even harder. And some came together. By the time she had passed them, Skathi was stained in blood, some of theirs, some of hers.

After a particularly bloody fight, there was something worse. Up the stairs of some ancient walkway was an arch with a tall suit of golden Dwemer armor, tall as a Giant maybe. And it moved on its own. It moved over to crush her with its hammer hands, but Skathi just dodged it. This would be a hard battle.

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

The Shout seemed to have no effect on the machine. It swung its hammer hands again and missed, but just barely. Skathi drew her sword and charged it. She was too close for the machine to reach and that’s how she wanted it. She took her sword and jammed it into some of the exposed machinery. Something popped and banged, and the automaton fell, dead as a machine could be.

Skathi climbed the stairs again and came to a room with someone in it. A Redguard woman in steel plate and a man in Legion armor. They had sword drawn at each other. So, this was what was left of those who came before. She wasn’t impressed.

“Sulla, let's just get out of here,” the Redguard begged, “Hasn't there been enough death?”

“Oh, of course,” the legionnaire, Sulla, scoffed, “You're just waiting for me to turn my back so you can have all the glory for yourself!”

Skathi was tired. “Could you bastards just kindly fall on your own swords to spare yourself whatever cruel end fate has in store for you?” she barked, making her presence known.

The two turned away from each other and faced the Nord. That was a mistake. The Redguard went in first but lost her head. The legionnaire took his bloody sword and turned it on Skathi. She swatted him and a red cut was there on his face. That made him angry. He based his sword down, but that not accurately.

Skathi tackled the bastard and drew her dagger on him. He caught her hand and growled. He tried to chock her, but that was a mistake. Skathi wrestled the dagger into her other hand and forced it into his throat. His arms fell on his dead body.

Skathi sighed. Why was bloody murder so often in her life? Still, she soldiered on. She used the attunement sphere to activate a device in the center of the room and the floor gave way into a stairway. A path ahead of her, she descended into Blackreach.

* * *

As Jeanne learned, the tools were ancient Nord embalming tools used in the mummification since before the first Cyrodiilic Empire. She confirmed with the priest of Arkay preparing Susanna’s body that was the murder weapon. Nothing else was strange about the body, but the fact is was something few people even considered owning narrowed down the suspects to within to a handful.

The perplexed detective couldn’t think of someone who would own Nordic embalming tools. A priest of Arkay were on that list, but the fact the one closest to the crime scene had no one they thought could be a suspect and gave her this lead made it unlikely one was the murderer. A collector maybe, but that makes everyone a suspect while she investigated their hobbies.

By the Thirteen Divines, she needed a drink. And a more concise pantheon.

Candlehearth Hall was out of the question, as she stabbed the clientele and she didn’t think that would be tolerated, but she heard the New Gninis Cornerclub was good. It was a bar in the Gray Quarter, the Dunmers’ district, so it was obviously an unwelcome place to Stormcloak officers. Although, she was out of uniform, so perhaps no one would say anything.

Her first step into the Gray Quarter and a lot about Ravani’s actions made sense. This place was its own little plane of Oblivious for the Daedric Prince of Claustrophobia. It was clear this place was built after the walls were put up. Even then, the numerous Dunmer made this place clear the wasn’t enough space for everyone, with barely three feet between each one. They needed a place more than they had the choice of where to stay.

The New Gnisis Cornerclub was easy enough to find she supposed. To her surprise, they not only had wine, but Argonian bloodwine. She was always under the assumption that Dunmer and Argonians had quite a lot of bad blood between them, but perhaps a not so much they couldn’t unite over a little alcohol. That’s gotta be a sign of unity, brewing, drinking and selling liquors.

As the strong liquid made itself apparent to Jeanne’s digestive system, the bartender, Ambarys, made a remark. “You gotta reason for drinking?”

Well, this was a scene out of a fair few books she read. “Well, I’m looking for someone and my only lead is ancient Nord embalming tools,” Jeanne explained.

Ambarys thought about it for a moment. “Useless, ancient, worth some level of money,” he muttered, “I’d say that fits Calixto’s House of Curiosities, but that implies robbing the place wouldn’t increase the worth of the building.”

“It’s something,” Jeanne replied, throwing her gold on the bar and leaving.

Calixto’s House of Curiosities turned out to be on the other side of the Gray Quarter, just as it became the Stone Quarter with the main market and Candlehearth Hall. It was an ideal location for a good business, appealing to two districts at once, but this wasn’t a reputable business. It was about as trustworthy as a the most transparent confidence trickster.

Stepping into the house, Jeanne could see the building was full of things that could be generously considered mundane. And then there was who could be presumed to be Calixto, the Imperial from the scene of Susanna’s death. Both were clearly surprised to see each other, but Jeanne was immediately suspicious.

However, he was nothing if not a professional. “Welcome to the House of Curiosities!” he oozed with false charm, “I offer a brief tour for a few coins, or you can simply browse at your leisure.”

Jeanne shrugged. “Alright, show me your collection,” she said as she gave five Septims.

The tour was brief, but educational. The first exhibit was of a selection of embalming tools exactly like those in Hjerim. That immediately made him a prime suspect, but she decided to get her money’s worth out of this. Granted, this was worth a lot more than what she paid, but it’s not like anything here was worth much.

The next was the Book of Fate, a book that could tell people’s destiny. It changed for different people, but some just saw blank pages. That could mean they had no destiny, or that their death was imminent. Or it was just a blank book.

Next was the Dancer’s Pipe. Straight from legends, it was said to have ended wars with the power of its music that compelled people to dance. It could only be activated with a phrase Calixto almost said but stopped when he caught himself. Jeanne never heard of this thing in her life.

And the last was Ysgramor’s soup spoon. It was a fork. Nothing else need be said.

Calixto was in the middle of his goodbyes when Jeanne decided to test him. “Actually, I would like you to tell me something,” she said as she reached into her pocket, “Do you know anything about this amulet?”

His eyes immediately betrayed him and went wide with surprise. "Let me see,” he muttered as looked closer in with faux necessity, “ah, yes. This is the Wheelstone. It's an heirloom symbol of power in Windhelm. Traditionally it's carried by the court mage. I would, eh,” he paused to find his words, “be interested in acquiring it. If you're willing to part with it, that is. For a piece like this, I could pay,” he thought for a price, “500 gold?”

Telling. “Shouldn't the court mage have it?” Jeanne inquired.

“Wuunferth?” he sputtered, “Bah. It's purely ceremonial, and he has no use for it. Besides, I wouldn't want to be the one to give it to him. Gives me the creeps. They say he dabbles in necromancy.”

Trying to deflect the suspicion. Clever, but not enough. “I think I'll hold on to it for the time being,” she stated.

His annoyance was obvious. “Suit yourself,” he said with fake ambivalence, “It's only of value to collectors, though. Good luck finding anyone else who will appraise it that highly!”

Jeanne turned to leave. She decided to try and provoke Calixto. “I wonder if there’s still blood on those tools.”

That was enough. As she put her hand on the door, something was jammed into her back. She pushed the man behind away in a sweeping motion. Calixto was thrown into a table and he grabbed a fork to fight her. Jeanne obviously outclassed him and set him ablaze. He screamed as the flames engulfed him and he fell over, dead.

Jeanne threw the dagger out of her back and went outside. The wound was still painful, but arrows and crossbow bolts were just as successful as this blade. She went over to the nearest guard and said:

“I’ve caught the Butcher of Windhelm.”

* * *

Blackreach turned out to be a strange and wonderous place. Glowing goo hung off the ceiling, strange plants stood taller than trees and Dwarven ruins littered the landscape. It felt like entering a far different world, as though Skathi had left her own behind for something Man, Mer and Beastfolk had yet to step.

But she was not. Falmer wandered this place like bats, the Dwarven automatons patrolled as if in waiting for someone to fall into a trap, and Divines know what else was lurking behind the corner of her eye. Despite this place’s strange beauty, it was as deadly as any place Skathi had roamed, perhaps more.

Wading through the dead bodies of any creature who fought her on her way, Skathi searched Blackreach for anything. There were few places of note and they weren’t anywhere close to each other. In one little home, she found the research notes of someone who ventured here to study the fauna. Gathering the plants of note killed some time waiting to find something.

Eventually, she discovered an elevator to somewhere else. Somewhere that clearly wasn’t Blackreach, so that was good. It seemed someone else had been there before, as a bedroll or two, cold pots and a skeleton don’t just end up in Dwemer ruins. The remains left nothing but a journal to learn what fate this poor fool reached far from the sun and moons.

Further in, there was a jade incrusted gold sphere so large that you wouldn’t notice the curve so close. It took up most of the room but left enough space to walk around. Up a ramp to the side, Skathi went up to a control panel and found a strange apparatus around the top of the ancient contraption that seemed to reflect a beam of light.

At the controls was a pedestal, for which the lexicon seemed perfect for. Skathi placed it there and the panel came to life. The buttons glowed bright blue and revealed themselves to her. When she pressed them, the apparatus shifted, and the reflecting light changed with it. Perhaps the Elder Scroll would reveal itself with the machine arranged in the right way. Well, that was obvious, but Skathi always thought of herself as slow on the uptake.

The only way to operate the console was with the buttons, none of which were labeled in anyway. Thus, operating this damn thing was trial and error. Sometimes, the glasses were so close to aligning, and other times, all her hard work was thrown out with the piss. She was fed up at one point and tried smashing the orb, but it didn’t break. The Dwemer clearly built things to last and be as overcomplicated as possible.

Skathi never considered herself intelligent. This was not specifically why, but everything else. She hated learning her parent’s economics, but they might’ve saved her a lot of headaches. She never was educated in the presence of priests or mages like one of the better families. She had no trade to fall back on, no skills to use, no knowledge she could use. Everything she still remembered was the art of surviving the Jerall mountains.

When this crisis was over, Skathi wouldn’t be able to return to her old life. Her acclaim as the Dragonborn would remain, even if she returned to her hunting grounds. Many would follow and praise her unrightfully. She could find a job in a city or one of the smaller towns, but not because she had a trade; they’d just want to give the Dragonborn a job. She couldn’t settle down, she couldn’t find a life in the real world, she couldn’t find anyone who truly knew her enough to love her and not the Dragonborn.

These thoughts ran their course, as they always do. After smashing and squashing the buttons, something different began happening. One button, previously blocked, was revealed. All the lights were aligned with the incrusted jade. Skathi pressed the button and the apparatus pulled away and a great crystal descended from the ceiling. She approached and it opened to reveal a scroll.

The scroll was beautiful, with a gold guard against the elements incrusted with great jewels. The image of wings was carved in the center. When Skathi took it, it was heavy and light at once. With a touch, even the smallest insect surely would tell this was a source of power as ancient as creation and twice strong.

This was an Elder Scroll.

When Skathi went back to the console, the Lexicon was covered in runes, presumably Dwemer script. Septimus would be happy. She found other elevator and pocked her head out to find night had fallen. Suddenly, her tiredness made sense. She went back into the tower and found one of the bedrolls to crash on. Cold, but she had worse and she drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow, this would be read.

* * *

Skathi had gotten used to the cold winds of High Hrothgar. They bit harder than the Jeralls, but a mountain woman like her could handle storms worse than this. Perhaps they still were too cold to sleep in, but Skathi could weather them for now.

What was a greater shock to the system was Paarthurnax. He was still unnerving, as a dragon would be in any circumstance. What was worse that, perched upon his roost, he seemed to be waiting for the Dragonborn. He looked toward the path up the mountain, his eyes fixed with no waver. There was no question that dragons were unnerving.

“You have it. The Kel,” Paarthurnax deduced, “the Elder Scroll. Tood kreh, qalos. Time shudders at its touch.”

He continued, never wavering from a tone of foreboding, “There is no question. You are doom driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal,” he nodded, “Go then. Fulfill your destiny.”

He raised his wing like a hand and pointed to part of the snow the storm seemed to favor. “Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound” he ordered, “Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs.”

Then this would be it. If they were going to fight Alduin, they would do it now. Perhaps that’s what he meant by “doom driven”: destined to fight the impossible battle, whether not they would live. Very well, then.

Skathi stepped in the Time-Wound, the energies flowing around her, and opened the Scroll. The letters glowed aethereal light and stayed in place when the Scroll moved away. The letters swirled together and showed the long and short of time. She saw things she would never be able to explain, from ancient secrets to prophesied events. It was far from the world she knew a month ago.

When she passed through the light, she was still at the top of High Hrothgar, but it had changed. The sky glowed a deathly red, clear as the summer sky. When she tried to move, she couldn’t. This was the place where she opened the Scroll, this would the place the Time-Wound was formed, this was the place she would watch.

Up the path to the peak, a Nord warrior ran from dragon fire. He wore armor ancient to Skathi, but new to him. “Gormlaith!” he called, “We're running out of time! The battle-"

He was interrupted by a dragon landing behind him, drawing his attention.

"Daar sul thur se Alduin vakrii,” the beast proclaimed, “Today Alduin's lordship will be restored. But I honor your courage. Krif voth ahkrin. Die now, in vain.”

The warrior gritted his teeth and cried, “For Skyrim!”

He drew a battle axe and fought the dragon. He dodged the beast’s strike and jammed his weapon into its scales, but it did not die. Soon, the warrior was joined by another, a woman, who drew sword her sword against it. She jumped upon its head and started slashing the creature’s throat until it fell dead.

“Know that Gormlaith sent you down to death!” she cried as its breath left it.

When the dragon died, it didn’t give up its soul. Its skin didn’t burn like paper. It was just another dead creature on Skyrim’s snow. Skathi understood her place as the Dragonborn, for that dragon would surely rise again, but it wouldn’t be so easy if their souls left them. As if she didn’t have enough pressure to do this right.

“Hakon! A glorious day, is it not?” Gormlaith greeted.

“Have you no thought beyond the blooding of your blade?” Hakon asked, worn from battle.

“What else is there?” Gormlaith genuinely wondered.

Hakon rolled his eyes and looked off the peak. “The battle below goes ill,” he observed, “If Alduin does not rise to our challenge, I fear all may be lost.”

“You worry too much, brother,” the warrior woman smirked, “Victory will be ours."

The two warriors approached an old man in robes. “Why does Alduin hang back?” Hakon asked, “We've staked everything on this plan of yours, old man.”

“He will come. He cannot ignore our defiance,” the sage stated, “And why should he fear us, even now?"

“We've bloodied him well,” Gormlaith grinned, “Four of his kin have fallen to my blade alone this day.”

“But none have yet stood against Alduin himself,” he retorted, “Galthor, Sorri, Birkir,” he remembered his old allies.

“They did not have Dragonrend,” the warrior woman remarked, “Once we bring him down, I promise I will have his head.”

“You do not understand. Alduin cannot be slain like a lesser dragon. He is beyond our strength,” the old man stated, “Which is why I brought the Elder Scroll.” He pulled out the very Scroll Skathi had in her hand for the point.

Hakon’s eyes went wide “Felldir! We agreed not to use it!”

“I never agreed,” Felldir retorted, putting it back into his robes “And if you are right, I will not need it."

“No. We will deal with Alduin ourselves, here and now," the worn warrior stated.

For the first time in this vision, Gormlaith’s seemed to feel fear. “We shall see soon enough. Alduin approaches!” she cried, looking at the sky.

Hakon’s expression was unchanged. “So be it.”

And so, it was that Alduin landed on the peak, staring at the Nord warriors. There was little difference between his form now and his form when he sacked Helgen and Kynesgrove. Understandable, given he was only thrown through time, not dug underground for these thousands of years. Only now did she notice how he seemed younger than Paarthurnax.

The Beast Shouted and rocks and fire fell from the sky like Helgen before, but the warriors were unphased. Unlike the people of Skathi’s time, it seemed they were just used to the idea of this apocalyptic display. What a time to be alive.

"Let those that watch from Sovngarde envy us this day!” Gormlaith proclaimed.

**“Joor Zah Frul!”**

The warriors three Shouted and Alduin’s eyes were shook with horror. He tried to fly but fell like rain instead. He twitched and scrambled like a wild and rabid animal. So, this was the power of Dragonrend.

“Nivahriin joorre! What have you done? What twisted Words have you created?!” the frightened Beast screamed, “Tahrodiis Paarthurnax! My teeth to his neck! But first,” he rose his head and stared straight at the warriors three, “dir ko maar. You will die in terror, knowing your final fate,” he crawled towards them, “To feed my power when I come for you in Sovngarde!"

“If I die today, it will not be in terror!” Gormlaith proclaimed, “You feel fear for the first time, worm. I see it in your eyes.”

The Nord warriors charged the Beast and brought their weapon down on him. He tried to swipe and bite but didn’t connect. The warriors, too, tried to break his skin, but his black scales were stronger than their steel. And then, Alduin managed to get Gormlaith in his jaw, chewing and tearing her until she moved no more and threw her corpse aside.

“No, damn you!” Hakon cried, “It's no use! Use the Scroll, Felldir! Now!”

The old man ran back to gather himself. He put away his great sword and took out the Elder Scroll. As he prepared, Hakon distracted the Beast as best he could, dodging its bloodied teeth. By the time the Dragon noticed what Felldir was doing, it was too late.

“Hold, Alduin on the Wing!” the old man shouted, “Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard! Begone, World-Eater! By words with older bones than your own we break your perch on this age and send you out! You are banished! Alduin, we shout you out from all our endings unto the last!”

Hakon was worn from the fight and couldn’t stop Alduin from unleashing a burst of fire on Felldir. But the fire didn’t burn. His robes, hair, skin and the Scroll were unphased by the flame, as though a more powerful force than any Shout protected him. Was this the power of Kynareth or what empowered the Scroll?

“Faal Kel?!” Alduin cried, “Nikriinne.”

“You are banished!”

Energy like those of that grant this vision surrounded the Beast. They penetrated his impenetrable scales and he screamed. They covered him entirely and close in as parts of him faded away. When it was done, Alduin was gone and all that was left on the mountain were Hakon and Felldir.

“It worked,” Hakon sighed in relief, “you did it."

“Yes, the World-Eater is gone,” Felldir, “may the spirits have mercy on our souls.”

This great moment in history ended, Skathi’s vision faded away from this. The energy returned around her and she returned to the High Hrothgar as she knew it. She could move again, and sky was not a deathly red. But Alduin was there.


	21. Chapter 20

Alduin was there, hovering over at the Throat of the World, staring bloody daggers at his enemies. Skathi felt his rage, hunger and chill from his presence alone. This would be it. They would need to kill him now or they may not ever find another chance to kill him.

Here, at the precipice of destiny, Skathi was afraid of more than her enemy. She had considered her fate was to die pointlessly by Alduin’s rage, but there were other things. Perhaps Paarthurnax was right and this would only begin the ending of the world. Perhaps it would be stalled and the better things to come never would. Perhaps this is all for naught.

But she couldn’t let herself think that. The next world will need to take care of itself, as she wouldn’t willing bring it worth. She would fight Alduin as long and hard as she could, whether in vain or not. She would die by fire or be forever known as a dragon slayer.

“Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor,” Alduin growled at Skathi, “My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin. Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde!”

“Lost funt,” Paarthurnax postured, “You are too late, Alduin!"

“Suleyki mulaag, Paarthurnax,” the Beast shot back, “My power has waxed, while yours has waned. Aav uv dir. Join me or perish with your mortal friends.”

“Unslaad hokoron!” the old dragon shouted, “Never again!”

Paarthurnax bolted off the ground with his thunderous wings spread and charged his fallen brother. The old dragon bit and clawed at his older brother, but they didn’t pierce his skin, only scratch scales away. The stronger Alduin’s bit right into his younger brother’s neck, drawing blood. Even after all these years, Alduin was more powerful than his brethren.

But not the Dragonborn.

**“Joor Zah Frul!”**

Skathi’s Shout reached Alduin as his brother’s wounded form fell to the ground. The Beast’s eyes went wide with panic, familiar from a thousand years ago. His wings failed him like they did moments and millennia ago. He fell hard on the peak, writhing in fear. He looked at Skathi with the barely contained rage of the sun and all the stars in the heavens.

Skathi charged the Beast, sword drawn, and swung at his jaw. He dodged the blade and tried to put her in his mouth. Skathi got out of the way just in time and swung her sword again. For the first time since she saw him, his skin broke and blood rushed down his snout. Alduin jumped back in surprise. This was the first time he fought a Dragonborn, wasn’t it?

Alduin let loose his fire breath, but it only scorched her armor and singed the ends of her hair. Again, he probably never fought a Dragonborn before. He summoned the rock and flame from when he first revealed himself, but they lost their effect with use and Skathi wasn’t afraid. She brought her sword straight into his chest, though the skin didn’t break.

It was clear this wouldn’t end quickly. Even if one could kill the other, it would be long and tiring. If Skathi fell, Paarthurnax would still have enough strength to finish him. Alduin surely knew this, as he was backing up towards the cliff.  
“Meyz mul, Dovahkiin,” the wounded Beast remarked, “You have become strong.”

He lifted himself into the air and continued, “But I am Al-du-in, Firstborn of Akatosh! Muulagi zok lot! I cannot be slain here, by you or anyone else! You cannot prevail against me. I will outlast you,” he sneered “mortal.”

And he bolted away to the horizon. Skathi tried to Shout Dragonrend again, but it surely wouldn’t reach. Fine then. Skathi begrudgingly accepted this failure and fell back onto the snow, tired from the fight. Paarthurnax came beside her, nursing his wound.

“Lot krongrah. You truly have the Voice of a dovah,” he remarked, “Alduin's allies will think twice after this victory.”

“It wasn't really a victory, since Alduin escaped,” Skathi retorted.

“Ni liivrah hin mere. True, this is not the final krongah,” he paused from his comforting, “victory. But not even the heroes of old were able to defeat Alduin in open battle. Alduin always was pahlok,” he paused for the right word, “arrogant in his power. Uznahgar paar. He took domination as his birthright. This should shake the loyalty of the dov who serve him.”

Skathi nodded, grateful for this small comfort, but still focused. “I need to find out where Alduin went,” she stated.

"Yes, one of his allies could tell us,” the old dragon added, “Motmahus. But it will not be easy to,” he searched for the right word, “convince one of them to betray him. Perhaps the hofkahsejun,” Paarthurnax paused to find the right word, “the palace in Whiterun.”

“Dragonsreach?” Skathi asked.

The old dragon nodded. “It was originally built to house a captive dovah,” he explained, “A fine place to trap one of Alduin's allies, hmm?”

“The Jarl of Whiterun might not think so,” the Dragonborn mused. Any good Jarl wouldn’t let a dragon in their city if they had a choice.

“Hmm, yes,” Paarthurnax realized, “But your Thu’um is strong. I do not doubt you can convince him of the need.”

“Maybe,” Skathi replied, “But there’s a war going on.”

Paarthurnax seethed. “Someone made a mistake then,” he remarked, “No one wants to go to war when talk will do. Anyone does is a volg tingrol,” he paused for the right word, “wild beast who needs to be put down.”

“It might not be so easy,” she stated, “It has come to this point through many issues, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then find it,” Paarthurnax commanded, “Life is far too precious to waste on a war amongst mortals.”

Skathi nodded and began her descent down High Hrothgar. She had some things to consider. She didn’t know that much about what caused the war. All she knew was what Imperials and Stormcloaks told her. She didn’t know who drew first blood, who’s done worse or who deserves to win or fail. She wasn’t even that versed in the art of war.

But she had to do something. Even if they didn’t join the battle against Alduin, getting them to stop fighting would be best for Skyrim. The less deaths, the better. Something to keep her awake at night as she pondered what exactly she would do. Tomorrow, she would need to convince a Jarl to let a dragon into his city. It was going to be a nightmare.

* * *

Whiterun had changed by far since Skathi had left. Stormcloak soldiers patrolled the streets, making the citizens fearful instead of a sense of safety. Children no longer ran in the streets, but within arm’s reach of their parents they silently played. Venders carried axes instead of daggers, save the blacksmith, whose mace was replaced with a greatsword.

Speaking of which, Adrienne Avenicci saw less traffic since the takeover. She was an Imperial, so the guards were warried to buy anything from her. If she wasn’t married to a Nord, there wouldn’t be anything in the coffers. Skathi bought some extra arrows and asked to improve a sword she found. Adrienne had no experience with swords of this make.

In the marketplace, Skathi noticed a missing face or two, probably killed in the battle. Carlotta Valentia, the grocer, commented on how the Stormcloaks would try to court her far more frequently than the previous guards and hadn’t bathed as much. They kept saying they’d “conquer me as a true Nord conquers any harsh beast.” That gave Skathi some ideas.

The outsider snuck into the back of the Bannered Mare, where the current captain of the guard was on break. She made sure not to be unseen she approached him from behind. Once in arm’s reach, she grabbed him with both arms, pulled her over her head and smashed him on the ground behind her. The warrior looked up in confusion and anger.

“That is what happens when your men harass Carlotta Valentia!” Skathi proclaimed, “She’s under the watch of Skathi Wolf-Runner, Dragonborn!”

“You’re Dragonborn?” the captain sneered as he picked himself up, “Prove it.”

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

The captain was flung into the backroom of the inn, bruised but still able to stand again. When he did, he was spooked and ran out the door. The inn around the fire raised their drinks, though the innkeeper had an equally panicked face to the captain.

As she left the inn, she was approached by one of the guards. “I need you to stop,” he ordered, shakily, “That shouting is making people nervous.”

Skathi was feeling cocky. “Too bad,” she snarked back, “There’s more where that came from.”

The guard looked around, trying to gather himself. “Can’t say I’ve heard of a law against,” he paused, “whatever that is you’re doing. But I’ll lock you up if I have to.”

“Whatever,” Skathi smirked.

The guard froze up and stated, “I’ve got my eye on you.”

She gave a brave face, but she was really scared during that exchange. That could’ve easily ended with her arresting and everything she fought for put on hold while she carried out her sentence. Well, if Skathi could do that, she could surely confront the Jarl.

And it wasn’t Balgruuf the Greater that on the dais. Instead, an old man with leathered skin and white hair sat on the throne. Skathi didn’t recognize this man, but the woman beside him she did know as Olfina Gray-Mane. Beyond that, she had no clue who this new Jarl was.

“Now, who comes before the Jarl of Whiterun?” the old man barked.

“Skathi Wolf-Runner,” the outsider stated, “Dragonborn and Thane of Whiterun. Who in Oblivion are you?”

The Jarl raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know your own Jarl?” he questioned.

“Sorry, I’ve been too busy fighting dragons to care what arsehole sits on which throne,” Skathi explained.

He frowned. “Vignar, head of Clan Gray-Mane and Jarl of Whiterun,” he replied, “What business does an upstart like you have with me?”

At least they were getting to the point. “I need to trap a dragon in your palace,” Skathi explained.

Vignar’s frown tightened in confusion. “I must have misheard you,” he feigned, “I though you asked me to help you trap a dragon in my palace.”

Skathi crossed her arms. “I hope you know I wouldn’t ask it if it wasn’t important,” she remarked, “I know it’s dangerous, but I need to question the dragon specific questions that only they can answer.” She continued passionately, “Alduin has returned. I must find him and slay him.”

Vignar looked as though he’d heard the mad truth. He closed his eyes and signed. “You already saved Whiterun from the other dragon,” he recounted, “We owe you a great deal.” He stood up. “I want to help you, Dragonborn. And I will,” he stated, “But I need your help first.”

“This is about the war, isn’t it?” Skathi inquired.

“What do you think the Imperials would be doing while this dragon slaughters my men?” Vignar explained, “I can’t risk weakening my city while we are under the threat of enemy attack. I’m sorry.”

It was always going to come back to the war. “What if you didn’t have to worry about an enemy attack?” Skathi inquired.

Vignar raised an eyebrow. “Then I would be glad to help your mad dragon-trapping scheme,” he answered, “But getting both sides to agree to a truce will be difficult at this point. The bitterness has gone too deep.”

Then his face shot as though an idea came into his head. “Maybe, hmm,” he pondered, “What about the Greybeards? They are respected by all Nords. High Hrothgar is neutral territory.” He continued, “If the Greybeards were willing to host a council then maybe Ulfric and Tullius will have to listen.”

Skathi nodded. “Leave that to me,” she stated, “I’ll talk to Arngeir about hosting a peace council.”

“Aye, Dragonborn,” the jarl agreed, “Maybe you can stop the dragons, and this war into the bargain.”

Skathi left the conversation there.

When she left Dragonsreach, she went right for the Skyforge. She beheld its majesty, a statue of a hawk over a pool of molten steel and ancient machines around it. At the grindstone was an old man with the body of one half his age, strong as the foundations of a mountain. Quite the sight to behold.

“Excuse me, sir,” Skathi inquired, “I need to know if this forge can rework ancient Nord workmanship.”

“It can, but I’ll not let a child like you work the forge,” the blacksmith stated, “You look more like a hunter than a smithy.”

“I know, I’m not a smithy,” she admitted, “but Adrienne Avenicci is.”

“What are you suggesting?” he asked, a confused look on his face.

“I would like a job done, specifically by Adrienne, but she isn’t experience in these field of smithing,” Skathi explained, “I would like you to guide her through it.”

He shrugged. “Sounds more complicated than it needs to be,” he remarked.

“Maybe, but if the people around here know an Imperial made my sword, they’d be more inclined to buy from her,” Skathi explained.

“Sounds a fine enough idea.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll both be paid well.”

The blacksmith’s eyes shot open. “Gods be praised!” he cheered. How much money has he made lately?

* * *

Rena’s lessons were done for the day, so she dismissed her soldiers. General Tullius saw it fit that such a distinguished soldier in this war would train the Legion’s new recruits. They were young, unused to war, so she had a long way to go. But still, she knew they would be thrown into combat before the month was out. They were so strapped for reinforcements; she was expecting them to rush their training.

The Legion’s situation was precarious. They controlled the northern holds and Markarth, and were preparing to invade Windhelm, but it could easily be lost in an instant. Their first attempt to enter Eastmarch was met with strong resistance. To their understanding, the Stormcloaks’ situation was just as shaky, but that could easily change with their conjure recruits out of nowhere.

What was a boon is that the Stormcloaks lost interest in Markarth. The Legion garrison and hold guards had enough troubles to deal with, so that and the two failures to take the hold probably deterred their morale. Ansgar’s sword arm was probably a big deterrent. Rena wondered if they had stories about him. The Legion certainly did.

Rena entered Castle Dour’s chambers to pick up dinner and to talk with Tullius. She had discussing a curriculum to train Legionnaires faster, cutting out a lot of unnecessary fluff in traditional training while keeping their value as soldiers. Hammered out the program was the hard part, as finding this bit or that bit hard to remove or quicken. Tullius’s persistent to make it work though, so Rena kept working at it.

Their soup and bread were taken in the war room. They had little patience for dinner when there was work to be done. From these meetings, Rena could discern a few things here or there from the war effort. One is that Ulfric’s desperation was being halted by his common sense, as he was reinforcing the holds that he had and was digging in for a Legion invasion on every front, even another army from Cyrodiil bursting through Falkreath and the Rift. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Do you even sleep?” Rena once asked.

“I’m not sure,” Tullius replied.

The general’s health was worrisome. The more Rena saw him, the more she noticed some rather unhealthy behaviors from him. He would barely touch his food and it was her that called it quits for the night, while he would say he had some more work to do before she saw him there in the morning like he hadn’t stopped working. Rena wondered who would kill him first: Ulfric or himself.

One day, they sat down for the evening workload when one of the guards came forth.

“General Tullius,” he spoke, “You have a visitor here to see you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Anyone I should know?” He inquired.

“No one I recognize,” the guard stated, “Some traveler.”

He sighed. “What business does he have?” he asked.

“My business is not to be shared through the rumor mill, General,” a familiar voice spoke from the lobby, “Skyrim is my business.”

It was Skathi. Rena almost couldn’t believe it.

“And who would you be?” Tullius asked.

“Skathi Wolf-Runner,” she stated, “Dragonborn.”

Rena perked up at the voice and the mention of the name. She hadn’t Skathi in a while.

Tullius was surprised as well. “Boy, let her in and go back to your post,” he ordered.

The guard nodded and let Skathi pass. She had changed a bit from when Rena first met her. Her armor was scorched and patched, looking like, well, she had been fighting dragons. Her arms showed an improved diet, looking less lanky and gamy and more like an archer’s muscles. Her hair was cleaner, and the braids didn’t tangle each other, but still as dark as before. Overall, she seemed to be in far better health than before.

“Do you have some reason to be here, citizen?” Tullius inquired.

“I believe we've already met,” Skathi remarked, her horned helmet off.

“Have we?” he asked, thinking about how that was possible. “Oh. Of course. You were at Helgen!” Rena didn’t know that. Probably the one Nord that didn’t wear Stormcloak colors, didn’t run and wasn’t Ulfric. “One of the prisoners, if I recall correctly,” Tullius remarked.

“Indeed, and by your laws, I deserved to be there,” Skathi admitted, “But you’ll recall that wasn’t the most important thing going on in Helgen.”

Tullius surely remember the Dragon or he would be a fool. “Still, give me a reason not to throw you in the dungeon,” he asked.

“I don’t think we have the time to see how badly that could go,” the Dragonborn remarked, “Besides, I have a message from the Greybeards.”

“The Greybeards?” he chagrinned, “What do those old hermits want with me?”

“They're convening a peace council at High Hrothgar,” she stated.

Tullius looked confused by this. “Why? There's nothing to discuss,” he seethed, “as long as that traitor Ulfric is in arms against his rightful Emperor.”

Skathi rolled her eyes like it wasn’t even worth it. “We need a truce until the dragon menace is dealt with,” she informed.

Rena remembered how fast the Eastmarch invasion went rotten when one of those beasts ended up on the battlefield. She hoped the general would remember that too.

“They are getting to be a problem,” he nodded, “But I wasn't sent to Skyrim to fight dragons. My job is to quell this rebellion, and I intend to do just that, dragons or no dragons.”

Skathi looked as though that was the stupidest thing she ever heard. “The dragons are a bigger problem than the Stormcloaks right now,” she stated.

“I'll be the judge of that,” he retorted, “Besides, by all reports the Stormcloaks are suffering just as much as we are from these dragon attacks.”

The Dragonborn’s face looked as though she knew her current strategy wasn’t going to work. So, she changed it. “The Empire can't afford to snub the Greybeards,” she stated.

Tullius grimly nodded. “Hmm. You may have a point,” he agreed, “I'm always surprised by how seriously the Nords take these things.” Legate Rikke seemed uncomfortable with that remark.

“You'll come to the peace council, then?” Skathi asked, confident in the answer.

“Yes. Yes, fine,” the general sighed, “I'll come to this Greybeard council. For all the good it will do.”

Skathi bowed her head. “Thank you,” she replied, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go shopping.”

Rena wasn’t sure what to make of that. She hoped it meant the end of the war.

* * *

As it turned out, Ulfric’s absence wasn’t for travel time; Jeanne knew that wasn’t the case. He was digging in the heels of the Stormcloak warband for the long haul. The Legion was preoccupied with taking Eastmarch, but they would find no quarter there, nor would they find any when they turned to fight the more vulnerable holds.

Another thing Ulfric was doing on the frontlines was taking in the displaced Jarls from the capture of the Pale and Winterhold. Skald the Elder and Korir had few places they and their entourages could go after their holds were taken. They took lodging in the Palace of Kings, where Jeanne could join them for dinner. They didn’t take too kindly to the idea of dining with a Breton.

It didn’t matter; the war room was more important. While Ulfric accommodated his guests, Galmar, Jeanne and the rest of the officers that weren’t dead or in the field planned the next move. Ultimately, they found there was little they could do. There weren’t enough soldiers, and training more would take time, especially if they wanted to do it right this time. They’d have to weather the Legion’s advances and hope reinforcements were sparing.

There was one option that Galmar knew Ulfric wouldn’t approve of: finding allies. To the east, they could immediately seek the assistance of the Dunmer of what was left of Morrowind. To the west, they may find a new army with the Redguards of Hammerfell. Both would take time and accommodations Ulfric couldn’t spare and comradery the Stormcloak regulars could show. Besides, there was little the Dunmer had in the way of spare military forces.

And so, the meetings in the war room descended into impromptu potlucks. Everybody brought something to eat and drink. Jeanne typically brought Horker loaf, as her coffers were the only ones that could stand the cost of bringing it southwards, and a bottle of Argonian bloodwine. Galmar brought chicken and mead. In fact, most people brought mead and something cheap and simple. This war would kill them with overeating if the Legion didn’t get them first.

The miserable party this night heard someone enter the palace. They were expecting no one.

“Who’s that?” Jeanne asked, not quite drunk, but a little tipsy.

Galmar shrugged. “We draw straws to find out who has to check,” he suggested.

Jeanne looked around for a moment. “We don’t have any straw,” she stated.

“Well then, you have to check,” the Nord warrior ordered.

Jeanne wandered out the war room to see who it was. The unexpected visitor was familiar, probably one of the strangers passing through Rorikstead. She walked right past the dinner table at the center of the room, not sitting down or taking a morsel. It was obvious to any that Ulfric was her person of interest, but not the reason why.

“Ah, Skathi,” Ulfric remarked, “I assume you’re still mad about the Jerall Mountains.”

The stranger, Skathi, nodded. “You forced me to me your guide,” she recounted, “But that’s irrelevant to why I’m seeking you out.”

The Jarl looked confused and Jeanne had a hand on her sword. “Then why are you here?” he inquired.

Skathi gave a devious smile. “Do you know the way ancient dragons greeted each other?” she asked in turn.

Ulfric shook his head. Perhaps that was mistake. The stranger shouted two unfamiliar words, and fire bellowed from her mouth upwards. It almost found purchase on the Jarl, but it was deliberately kept from leaving even as single hair singed. Jeanne and any able body with a weapon charged for threatening the Jarl’s life.

“Hold,” Ulfric ordered, “Let’s talk about this.” The crowd stopped and stepped back. “Hawksly, you too.” And Jeanne kept her distance.

The adopted Nord wasn’t certain what this was. She had seen this form of magic before out of Ulfric but wasn’t certain as to what it was. She knew it was the magic of shouting, but not why it was particularly significant or how it was supposed to work. How did this woman learn the technique? Had she always had this ability? What made her special to Ulfric?

“I could’ve killed you,” Skathi said in a hoarse voice, “but there are a few things I want out of you.”

“I supposed I owe you a favor,” Ulfric coyly remarked, “What do you want?”

The woman looked him dead in the eyes and asked, “Did you kill High King Torygg with your Voice?”

He nodded. Fair question. “Not entirely true,” he stated, “though not entirely false either. You and I both know one can learn the Way of the Voice by studying with the Greybeards, given enough ambition and dedication. My shouting Torygg to the ground proved he had neither. However, it was my sword piercing his heart that killed him.”

Jeanne was shocked. While slightly intoxicated, she understood enough to know that such a duel was illegitimate. Honorable combat meant they were given the same equipment and their skill would show who would lead, but that fails the moment you use an ability not being tested. Ulfric could Shout, Torygg couldn’t. In a test of might, this was cheating. He was nothing more than a warlord.

“Alright,” Skathi nodded, “Back to business. I have a message from the Greybeards.”

He smirked. “It's about time they turned their gaze from the heavens, back to our bleeding homeland.” He remarked, “What do they want?"

“They want to negotiate a truce until the dragon menace is dealt with,” she stated.

A truce? “I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course,” Ulfric sighed, “And the dragon attacks are a growing plague. But the political situation is still delicate. Not all the Jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there.”

“Politics be damned,” Skathi growled, “Alduin has returned!”

Ulfric’s eyes went wide. “Alduin? The World-Eater of song and legend? If that's true,” he paused in thought, “well, it changes the situation doesn't it? Even Tullius may be forced to talk sense in the face of such a threat.”

Jeanne didn’t know who Alduin was. She didn’t know much about Nord legends, but if Ulfric was shaken by the reality of its return, it must be important. A truce may yet be possible.

“So, you'll come to the peace council?” Skathi inquired.

“Yes,” the Jarl said grimly, “I'll give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs.”

With that, the stranger left the palace with pride. Jeanne would have to prepare for a truce. It may give them time to rebuild their forces, but the same went for the Legion. Hopefully, a few things could be taken from the negotiation table that would give them the edge when the war turned hot again. And hopefully, someone would tell her who this Skathi was.

* * *

It had come to this. Both Stormcloaks and Imperials had agreed to this meeting. At High Hrothgar, they put their differences aside long enough to discuss the possibility of peace. If not for Skyrim, then for the sake of Tamriel or may Alduin devour the world. Skathi would celebrate this much, but she knew this was just a pebble compared to the boulder of negotiations.

To the right and left of the temple, Stormcloak and Legion soldiers stood vigil. When the Dragonborn approached, their attention shifted to her, perhaps looking for any sign of loyalty. They would find none. Skathi had picked up an outfit in Solitude she was told was neutral to the trappings of either side in the war. Neither red, nor blue, neither rich or poor, neither Nordic nor Imperial fashion. She wasn’t certain how, but she wasn’t an expert on clothes.

Entering the temple, she was faced with Arngeir. He was reluctant to host the party, seeing it as overstepping the Greybeards’ authority. However, he had to admit this was a necessary step in defeating Alduin, so would hold this council. He still seemed uncomfortable with this situation.

“So, you've done it,” Arngeir remarked, “The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace.” He sighed, “I should not have agreed to host this council. The Greybeards have no business involving themselves in such matters.”

“Don't worry. I'll get them to agree to peace,” Skathi replied, trying to believe it herself.

“Peace? I doubt it,” he retorted, “They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war. Far from it.

And he chuckled, as though he remembered a joke. “Do you know the ancient Nord word for war?” he mused, “‘Season unending.’ So, it has proved.”

And out from the entrance was two people Skathi had honestly forgotten about. The Blades, Delphine and Esbern. Of all people to come here, they were probably the worst ones. They probably got past with that ‘friends of the Dragonborn’ status, but they surely weren’t here to talk. They were probably here to assassinate one of the parties because they didn’t think dragons were real.

“So. Arngeir, is it?” Delphine asked, “You know why we're here. Are you going to let us in or not?"

“You were not invited here,” Arngeir growled, “You are not welcome here.”

“We have as much right to be at this council as all of you,” she replied, “More, actually, since we were the ones that put the Dragonborn on this path.”

“Were you?” Arngeir snarked, “The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds."

Esbern rolled his eyes and interjected, “Delphine, we're not here to rehearse old grudges. The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped. You wouldn't have called this council if you didn't agree.” He continued, “We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed.”

Arngeir thought about for a moment and nodded as they even doing that was a crime worthy of death. “Very well. You may enter,” he reluctantly stated.

Skathi approached the speaking monk and whispered, “If they’re a threat, do what you wish with them.”

The council didn’t get off to a good start. Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador, had wormed her way into the Imperial delegation. Ulfric refused to have her at the table, but she claimed she was only here to observe if anything violated the White-Gold Concordant. Skathi argued General Tullius was surely more than capable of fulfilling that role and she was just redundant, so she made to leave.

From then on, Skathi’s role in this was to either say yay or nay when they couldn’t agree. If something was suggested, but they couldn’t agree about it, she would weigh in and it would somehow decide everything. She was barely paying attention through any of it. She was a hunter and warrior, not a politician.

Honestly though, Esbern was better at keeping the peace. He always reminded the delegates of their duty, to the people under their protection. That always made sure they held their tongue and got back on tract. Sometimes, he’d get lip from Ulfric or Tullius, he was quite an amazing in the art of speech. Skathi was just waiting for the dagger in the back.

Strangely, Jarl Elisif said nothing throughout. She was the widow of the late King Torygg, but not a single issue she spoke up on. This was the woman the Empire backed for monarch of an entire province! Surely, she would have an opinion. But no, she let Tullius dictate terms. The worrisome thought that she was only a puppet of the Empire was ever present in Skathi’s mind.

By the end of it, there was a peace the Dragonborn only hoped would work. The Reach and the Rift traded hands, as strange as that sounds for a hold so deep in Stormcloak territory. Ulfric would be paying compensation to the victims of a massacre at Karthwasten, even if that had nothing to do with him. Mostly importantly, the war would be over for now. That was enough for now.

After the council was over, Skathi found Vignar. “Giving up Riften is a heavy price to pay for this truce, Dragonborn,” he remarked, “I hope it was worth it.” Given the new Jarl was going to be Maven Black-Briar, a name she once heard in association with crime in the city, that was a genuine concern.

“Jarl Vignar,” Arngeir spoke up, “I assume you’re familiar with the Dragonborn’s plan?”

The Jarl frowned and nodded. “Yes, I’m ready to do my part,” he answered, turning to Skathi, “Just say the word and my men will help you spring this trap.”

“But the difficulty remains,” the speaking monk remarked, “how to lure a dragon to Dragonsreach at all?”

Honestly, Skathi was just hoping to even have this chance and didn’t figure out how it was supposed to play out. Maybe she should’ve planned something before all this played out. Then again, at least they had a truce.

“Ah,” Esbern interjected, “I believe I can be of help here.”

The old blade unfurled several scrolls with the stench of age on them. He continued, “While you were arranging this meeting, I was busy in the library of Sky Haven Temple. An unguessed trove of lost lore,” he trailed off in admiration, “but the most important thing is that the Blades recorded many of the names of the dragons they slew.”

Esbern took two papers in particularly. “Cross-referencing this with Delphine’s map of dragon burial sites,” he explained, “and I believe I’ve identified one of the dragons that Alduin has raised up.”

Skathi frowned. “How does that help us?” she asked.

“Ah, don’t you see?” Esbern replied, “The names of dragons are Words of Power, Shouts. By calling the dragon with the Voice, he will hear you wherever he might be.”

“Why would he come when called?” she asked again.

Arngeir and Esbern shared a look as though they both shared exasperation with the Dragonborn’s ignorance. “He’s not compelled to,” the old Blade explained, “but dragons are prideful by nature and loath to refuse a challenge. Your Voice is likely to intrigue this dragon, after your victory over Alduin. I think it very likely that he will be unable to resist investigating your call.”

That sounded better than Skathi could’ve hoped. “So, what’s this dragon’s name?” she asked.

Esbern perked up, the old fogey. “Ah, indeed,” he replied, “I’m no master of the Voice like these worthy gentlemen,” gesturing toward the Greybeards, “but it is written here in this scroll.” He held in up a recited, “Od – Ah – Viing. ‘Winged Snow Hunter’, as I read it.”

Vignar nodded. “When I return to Whiterun, I’ll get my men ready to help trap this dragon,” he stated, on his way out the temple.

As Skathi also went to leave, Delphine caught her arm. “There’s one more thing,” she stated, “We know about Paarthurnax.”

Skathi sighed. This was always going to be an issue. “Turns out he's a dragon,” she explained, “But he helped me.”

The Blade didn’t seem upset. “That's fine. We needed his help,” she replied, “Now we don't, and its long past time for him to pay for his crimes. And he's not just any dragon. He was the right hand of Alduin. He committed atrocities so infamous they are still remembered, thousands of years later.

“He needs to die,” she continued, “He deserves to die. And it falls to you to kill him. Until he's dead,” she shook her head, “well, I'm sorry, but we would dishonor our oaths as Blades if we continued to help you.”

Skathi tore her arm away. “Like I care about your honor,” she retorted.

As she passed Arngeir she whispered, “If they make it towards the yard, let the storm take them.”


	22. Chapter 21

Waiting was horrific. Rena had been assigned to lead a company for the Empire’s security at this conference. She didn’t peek in and try to see what was going on; she had a job to do. Between the Stormcloaks and the Greybeards and the Blades, she had her hands full with everything.

She stood outside the temple, deliberately trying not to disappoint herself. She figured Ansgar would burst in and dictate terms and murder Ulfric if he disagreed. She didn’t want to be an Ansgar. The last time she was witness to a treaty, it was overturned within the week. She hoped the troops back in Markarth were doing okay.

Rena was getting tired when suddenly General Tullius came out with Legate Rikke and Jarl Elisif. The general looked just as tired as she was. Must have been an exhausting discussing, but she supposed that’s what happens when you talk to Stormcloaks for so long.

“Good news, captain,” Tullius stated, “We’re getting Riften and Ulfric to pay some reparations to the Reach.” Rena sighed before Tullius gave the bad news, “But he’s getting Markarth.”

Rena was shocked and disappointed by this. She had fought for the Reach, bled and done her duty, but now it was in the hands of those she fought against. It felt like they stole the land she won fair and square. Many moments in the fairgrounds with her young cousins and overbearing aunts came to mind.

But the Rift was good news. Through the hold was a road to Cyrodiil, so they could possibly get the reinforcements they needed. It would precarious, relying on the Stormcloaks to keep away from their ships, but it was better than no roads.

Rena began to prepare the troops to move out. They had gotten spread out and comfortable when they were there, so it would be a small while before they could head home. In that time, Skathi came up to her in the Dragonborn’s special robes.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” Skathi remarked.

Rena put her work aside to talk to her. “Actually, it’s just been a few days,” she stated, “I was in the war room when you summoned General Tullius.”

The Dragonborn looked embarrassed. “I didn’t see you,” she admitted.

“It’s okay,” Rena assured, “I’m just happy to see you again.”

Skathi looked flattered by the sentiment. “I hope I did right by you here,” she remarked, “I would hate to disappoint you.”

“It’s fine,” Rena assured, “I would prefer different results, but I’m good with what we have.”

That didn’t seem to be enough for Skathi to seem comfortable. It was like she was crushed she hadn’t done enough, but that fact she did all this was enough to impress her. She couldn’t think of anyone who could do this, save Tiber Septim himself, and what she did today would surely be enough for now.

“Don’t worry, Wolfy,” the Imperial reassured, “I don’t hold anything against you for what happened today. You’ve done more for this than I could ever imagine.”

To be honest, Rena saw Skathi as a tall, awkward child that needed some love. She was surely over twenty winters but was still uncomfortable with other people. She was far from the Nord ideals of comradery and pride, but she saw things that she had never seen in another Nord. She didn’t boast, she was unafraid to admit her fears and she fought a dragon without ego. She would like to give so many people a personality like this, even if it wasn’t wise.

Skathi looked like she was about to cry. “Is alright if I give you a hug?” she asked.

Rena nodded and the tall woman gave her an embrace with the strength of a bear. It felt like she missed these things, hadn’t an opportunity in years. It was clumsy, but the Imperial still gave her a hug in return. She needed this. She missed these too.

“I still have a lot to do,” Skathi stated, “What I must do, I don’t wish on you.”

Rena broke away. “What have you been up to since we last met?” she inquired.

Skathi told of so many things. She fought vampires in Morthal, necromancers and draugr in crypts, more dragons, Dwemer remnants, Thalmor justiciars, and even a Nord dragon god. She explained it was such enthusiasm, even if she was sidetracked a few times to go into more detail. Rena didn’t understand it all, but she was just happy to hear the tall woman in such intense care for these things, even if it was obvious that there were a few things she was holding back.

It sounded as though she had been fighting many foes and found victory every time, but it all sounded truthful. Veterans she’d met would exaggerate for more glorious stories, but Skathi just said it as it was. Maybe she was lying here or there, as some of these things sounded too outlandish for her, but it sounded like she was being truthful. She kinda hoped she wasn’t truthful.

General Tullius interrupt these stories. “Captain, we need to get going!” he barked. Skathi was clearly spooked by the shout.

“I’ll be right with you,” Rena replied and turned to Skathi, “I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I have to go.”

Skathi nodded sadly. She was clearly unhappy to see her go.

Rena put a hand on the tall woman’s arm, though she seemed a little uncomfortable to have it there. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she reassured, “You have a lot of do and it will surely be something that will be told by bards for years to come. Just know, I’m proud of you for it.”

The tall woman was flattered and uncomfortable with it. “Anyone else would do the same as me,” she muttered.

“Anyone else would intolerably brag until the brave lass Matilda came to prove the worth of silence,” Rena replied, “You deserve this glory. No matter how much you don’t think you do, I’m happy you’re the Dragonborn.”

There were tears in Skathi’s eyes. “Thank you, Rena,” she cried, bring her head in a soft hug.

“I should be thanking you, big sweetie,” the Imperial replied.

Rena broke away and followed the company to move out, giving a goodbye to the Dragonborn. She meant what she said. With the warriors that abuse that power or never use it, she knew that Skathi was a better choice than other she’s seen. Better than a Legionnaire or Stormcloak. She had to save Skyrim; that meant she could let politics get in the way.

Meanwhile, Rena chose to fight for the Empire. And she would. Until her last dying breath.

* * *

Jeanne almost coughed on her drink. Apparently, the Vilemyr Inn only stocked mead, particularly some Black Briar brew. It tasted of piss just as bad as the rest of the mead in Skyrim. The other Stormcloaks at the table were clearly surprised, not expecting the adopted Nord to find the most common liquor in Skyrim disgusting. That didn’t matter; all Nord brewed mead tasted like piss.

When Ulfric came to this conference, he brought a hundred of his best warriors to protect him from any threat to his life. Mostly the Empire, as he noted the Dragonborn and Greybeards could easily kill him if they wanted to. Jeanne was surprised to hear Skathi was Dragonborn, like unto Tiber Septim. Hopefully, the need to conquer the whole of Tamriel wasn’t inherent.

Right now, Ulfric’s Stormcloaks were taking a rest in Ivarstead before heading out to Windhelm tomorrow. The Legion’s security was given orders not to enter the town, give the new truce some breathing space. Still, a few familiar looking individuals were patrons at the bar. They looked like they’d never had to drink the goat piss they called mead. Then they did. Was Jeanne the only one that didn’t like Nord mead?

Well, also Eoni. Jeanne wasn’t sure why she was here. Out of the best warriors of the warband and hold guard, she wasn’t really among them. Those Ulfric had brought had titles of their great deeds, like “Troll-Slayer,” “Bone-Breaker,” “Snow-Hammer,” or “Stormblade.” All Eoni had was Half-Good. Just odd.

“So, the war’s on hold,” the half-elf remarked, “How are you gonna spend your time?”

Jeanne shrugged. “I came to Skyrim to liberate it,” she stated, “I didn’t have much of a plan after that.”

Eoni smirked. “I know what I’m doing,” she explained, “I’m going to train battlemages for when this truce is over.”

That was inevitable. Sure, it would be nice if this became a peace treaty, but it just wouldn’t work like that. The borders were left in such a way that it could only lead to more war. The Legion could replenish their numbers with the road through the Rift and the Stormcloaks’ goals weren’t met. It didn’t help the new borders were too uneven to rely on. War would be on again before they knew it.

“I could do a little adventuring,” Jeanne speculated, “maybe a pub crawl.”

Eoni raised an eyebrow. “From where to where?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” the Breton shrugged, “Maybe Windhelm to Falkreath.”

The half-elf gave a surprised and concerned look. “Why don’t you do a pub crawl across the whole of Skyrim?” she sarcastically asked.

To be honest, that’s about where she was. Whiterun gave her the impression she wouldn’t live through the war, so she removed her plans for after the victory from her minds so well that she forgot what they were. She still didn’t remember them. Maybe they were to finally settle down and make a family or join a mages’ college or find another war to fight. She wouldn’t know.

Perhaps now she would become an adventurer. She knew that life was harsh, unpredictable, unwise. The pay was amazing, but finding work was difficult. Nobility could scrounge up the payment for these deeds, but commoners weren’t so lucky and would give as much as they could. Of the two, commoners had a lot more problems, but not the money to throw at it.

“Maybe you’d make a decent instructor,” Eoni remarked.

“Nah,” Jeanne replied, “I’m not much of a teacher.”

“Yeah,” the half-elf agreed, “I can see that. But it’s not like I’d be much either. I’m going to end up doing so much terrifying shit.”

“I hope you don’t know illusion magic,” Jeanne chuckled.

Eoni laughed. “That would be glorious!” she cheered.

And Jeanne felt the need to leave the inn for a walk. The night was calm, and the town was small. There was no need for fear here. It’s a shame it was in the Rift. Ivarstead would be a nice little burg to live if it wasn’t under the Empire.

Jeanne wondered where that thought came from. Had she been with the Stormcloaks so long that her immediate thought was to how the Empire was terrible? When she started this, she was simply a Breton girl who wanted to do her part. Now she was practically a Nord which her ferocity in battle and list of glorious deeds. Where did that Breton girl go?

She walked by the river and found Ulfric and Skathi discussing something. She didn’t listen in, but she assumed it was interesting. These two were masters in their own ways of a discipline lost to the ages and both had taken very different paths in life. A warlord and a savior, far from what anyone would consider similar. She wondered if Ulfric wouldn’t have gone down that path if things were different.

Yes, perhaps an adventurer was the only life for her. Her craft was violence. These two’s lives were built solely around violence, as they were their craft, even if they were different from each other in their applications. Jeanne had no war to fight and knew only how to fight. Leaving it might not be easy.

And then something strange happened. There was a man in rags who was scruffy and balding. He lacked recognizable hygiene, but that was the least of his concerns. He looked panicked, his eyes moving around like he was looking for enemies. Jeanne didn’t know where he came from but neither what he saw that made him like that.

“Narfi saw them!” he blubbered, “Narfi saw something he shouldn’t have!”

He put his hands onto Jeanne’s arms like he was trying to find comfort. “What did you see?” Jeanne asked.

“Elves! Two elves talking to each other, but they shouldn’t have!” he explained his madness, “No one would like it if they were talking to each other!”

“Excuse me,” a guard interjected, “is Narfi troubling you?”

Before Jeanne could say anything, Narfi grabbed his arm too. “You! The gold elves are conspiring!”

That could only mean the Thalmor, but why would two of them talking to each other cause him such grief. They came here with the Empire’s entourage as observers but were quickly kicked out. Sure, they’d be stewing, but why would their conversation immediately make Narfi scream bloody murder. It didn’t make sense. Well, unless he was racist, which wasn’t out of the ordinary.

“Come on, Narfi,” the guard fake cooed, “let’s go talk to Wilhelm.”

“Good, maybe we can get him to sort things out,” he remarked as he was being led away.

Strange. Perhaps there was something Jeanne had she could spend her time on.

* * *

When she was a child, Ravani almost died. One day, when she was fed up with life in the Gray Quarter if one could call it life, she threw herself in the White River and tried to swim away. She didn’t know where she’d go, maybe Solsteim, but it didn’t matter to the child that never swam in her life. If a kind sailor hadn’t gone after her after she fell under the water, she wouldn’t have to opportunity to stay in the in someone’s house with a cold for weeks.

Since then, Ravani learned to swim. Every day, she practiced in an abandoned bathhouse, though the early days led to many close calls. When she was certain she wouldn’t drown just yet, she started practicing in the White River. Only small distances at first, but her routine would eventually involve a mile in the river once a week. Lately, she hadn’t been able to practice in the White River, so she wasn’t sure the task ahead of her was possible.

The Legion fleet couldn’t receive word of the treaty’s results. They could see when the land party made camp by the water that they couldn’t move forward, but elaborate news of the peace treaty wasn’t to their knowledge. Ravani just heard word that the fleet was to divide and Legate Fasendil was to be stationed in the Rift to secure additional Legionnaires. There was no way to tell them this, as the daily supply run already went through, save someone had to swim.

Ravani volunteered to do this, but it wouldn’t be an easy feat. This was further than she’d ever swam before. Her lack of practice in cold water of late was a distant second to her practice in open water. But still, any military force in deployment for armed conflict wouldn’t be tolerated and they needed to clear out. They needed to hear this or Ulfric might send a fleet to wipe them out and the Empire would need to agree. It wasn’t really a choice; it was to keep something stupid from happening.

The preparation for swimming was odd. First was stripping down to her skin, as nothing would be useful for keeping out cold water, and a lot of things would just weigh her down. Next was applying troll fat to her entire body, even though goose fat was better, a cheaper alternative was acceptable to keep from chafing. Finally, a potion to keep the cold from dropping her body’s temperature, easily bought anywhere but specialized in a select few places. She picked some of this up from sailors, others from personal experience.

Once Ravani was naked, covered in gross animal fat and almost feverous from the potion, it was time to swim. She took a few steps into the water and then went into a breaststroke. Once she got used to the cold, she went into forward facing backstroke.  
In the open waters, she found it harder to control her speed at first. The waves kept forcing her to the beach, but she wasn’t keen on going back there just yet. Long ships could weather these waves easily, but a smaller swimmer didn’t have that control. Against the winds though, she had more. It was only a matter of time before the open waters didn’t force her to the nearest sources of land; it was just waiting for that time that was hard.

With the tedium of swimming this far gave Ravani the need to think of random things. The fleet had managed to get through the Sea of Ghosts fine, so it wouldn’t be too out of the question that go along the same path back. The average Dunmer and Cyrodiilic Imperial have the same height at 5’9”. Imperial light armor has layered vests of gambeson and mail that protect the wearer from most injuries, but these layers are hidden. The average Nord consumes more milk than another civilized race in Tamriel.

These random thoughts distracted her from her strokes, and she didn’t see the iceberg ahead of her. The second she saw it, she knew slowing down would kill her momentum, but this pace would make her smash into the ice. She tried to turn as fast as she could, but it was too slow, and it clear her body would make contact. In a moment’s time, she put her hand on the iceberg, sending searing chill and pain through her, and pushed herself around it. It was something she practiced, so she would need to check for any damage later.

Pushing through the sea, the fleet was getting closer and closer. At the same time, the water was getting colder and colder. It wasn’t obvious if it was the potion wearing off or the water getting worse, but she did feel a lot less sweaty. If the potion ran its course before she made it to the fleet, she could die of chill. Going faster would make it work faster. She would need to keep pace as best she could and hope for the best.

Through her strokes, she submerged her head a few times, but found something worse than a chilly head. She saw something following her. She hadn’t the time to look closely, so it could be a shark for all she knew. Her speed increased for fear of being eaten, but that meant the potion was running its course sooner. It didn’t matter; the ships needed the information and she would die if it was big enough to eat her.

The vessels became less than thirty feet away, her heart in cheer and relief, when a sudden chill hit her. That chill always meant the same thing: the potion wore off. The cold was seeping into every inch of her body as she got closer, her strokes became slower with it. Her vision was fogging, and the beast bellow her was surely approaching.

The moment she was sure she would die, that’s when a rope was thrown her way from the nearest ship. She scrambled up the rope. She was alive. She would live for a few minutes more. Her sacrifice was worth it. Must be the cold if she was thinking thoughts like that.

Ravani emerge on the deck, the crew shocked by her lack of apparel, and said, “News from General Tullius. The war is off for now.”

* * *

After a brief trip to the Skyforge, Skathi went straight to Dragonsreach. It was time to trap a dragon.

It was surely not a task taken lightly. A dragon in the wild was dangerous enough but trying to draw one into a trap was madness to many. Of course, she had few other choices than this, as they wouldn’t answer her questions when they could just burn her alive with a word. The Dragonborn’s path wasn’t an easy one.

Upon entering Dragonsreach, a solemn atmosphere permeated the hall. Everyone carried a dagger at least; a mass of guards was assembled and men with sweat stained shirts drank quietly at the table. Everything here was for the dragon and everyone knew it. Everyone knew one wrong thing would drive it into the city and Whiterun would burn a second time. Skathi was determined to not let it happen again.

As the Dragonborn approached Vignar, he reported, “We’re ready, Wolf-Runner. As I promised, my men stand ready. The chains are oiled. Just say the word.”

Skathi nodded, “I’m ready,” she stated, “Let’s go trap a dragon.”

Vignar rose from his throne. “My men know what to do,” he gestured, “Make sure you do your part. I’m putting my city in your hands.”

Skathi and the Jarl walked up the stairs behind the throne, followed closely by the guards. These men were Stormcloak soldiers. They joined for Ulfric and his cause to get the Empire out of Skyrim. They’d die for their home. This wasn’t their home, nor did they owe anything to this Jarl. May they live for the Jarl but die for Skyrim.

The Dragonborn and Jarl entered the great porch and the guards took positions around the room. It was large, so big that it might hold five dragons and still have plenty of space. Most of it was built with stone, an inflammable material. Looking up, there was half a wooden muzzle held one the ceiling. There was nothing here that didn’t seem perfect for a dragon trap.

Vignar turned to Skathi. “Let’s do this,” he mumbled, “Summon this dragon of yours.” He was uneasy about this business, as he should be.

Skathi walked to the balcony. There was no turning back from this. They had already worked so hard for this moment, to never do it was cowardice. But she was still afraid something would go wrong. Considering the magnitude of what they were doing, it could be nothing else. Skathi remembered the words and prepared to Shout three times throughout this.

**“Od Ah Viing!”**

And then they waited. And waited. And then like a strike of lightning, a red dragon shot down onto the balcony, picked up a guard and took with into the sky, leaving just his shield.

All the remaining guards drew bows and loosed many an arrow as Odahviing returned. They bounced off his scales, but one of Skathi’s black arrows hit him straight in the chest. That angered him and he Shouted fire onto them. It only scorched a few guards and had no effect on the Dragonborn. He looked confused by this resistance.

**“Joor Zah Frul!”**

Skathi shouted and stepped back into the porch. Odahviing shuddered, eyes shot wide. He crashed into the balcony and the guards fell back with the Dragonborn. They loosed another volley, this time piercing the scales. That added with another black arrow meant his existential crisis was compounded by great physical pain.

The dragon start losing sense and started acting like a rapid dog, biting and clawing at anything close by. As soon as he found Skathi again, he charged her, and she led him further into the porch. Guards ran too, some flung across the room with disregard, others screaming to the base of crackling fire.

Skathi was running scared of this, hopeful it wouldn’t kill her. Then the sound of mechanical movement shot her from this panic. She turned around and saw the muzzle fell onto Odahviing, holding him down. At the sight of her, he gave another burst of fire, but it did not burn her. Dragons always seemed to try that; despite the fact it didn’t work.

**“Yol Toor Shul!”**

Skathi roared that Shout at the end and flame came upon his face. It didn’t burn him, nor did it burn the muzzle, but that wasn’t what it was meant for. As Paarthurnax told her, it was tradition for dragons to great the other this way. This was the respect Odahviing was getting while he was caged.

The red dragon seemed to smile at the gesture, or maybe it was just Skathi’s existence. “Zu'u bonaar,” he remarked, “You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this,” he paused, looking around the apparatus, “humiliating position. Hind siiv Alduin, hmm? No doubt you want to know where to find Alduin?”

“That's right,” Skathi hoarsely confirmed, “Where is he hiding?”

“Rinik vazah. An apt phrase,” Odahviing smiled, “Alduin bovul. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um for myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him."

A dragon rebellion could be useful, but not what Skathi wanted to know. “You were telling me where to find Alduin?” she asked.

“Unslaad krosis. Innumerable pardons,” the red dragon apologized, “I digress. He has travelled to Sovngarde to regain his strength, devouring the sillesejoor,” he paused, “the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards.”

A shocking thought to have Alduin feed on the honored dead. They had already earned their death with their sacrifice; they didn’t deserve to be devoured by a monster. Skathi, however, was less affected by this. She wasn’t quite sure how to process Sovngarde, or even death. She just couldn’t comprehend the concept of it.

Odahviing continued, “His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldalfn, one of his ancient fanes high in in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there.”  
“Zu'u lost ofan hin laan,” he asked, “now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?”

Skathi sighed. It was a lot. But there was one thing she was certain one. “Not until Alduin is defeated,” she answered. She couldn’t trust a dragon now.

“Ah. Well,” he replied, “Hmm, krosis. There is one,” he paused out of embarrassment or to find the right word, “detail about Skuldalfn I neglected to mention."

“Spit it out, then,” the Dragonborn sighed. There was always something.

“Only this,” he explained, “You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn.” He continued, “Of course, I could fly you there. But not while imprisoned like this.”

An impasse then. Was it worth trusting this dragon to carry her to the door of Sovngarde? He could just be lying to get himself out, but he could also tell the truth. What madness he could do if free? Well, not much, as there were two reasons he shouldn’t be lying, both dragons. If he did lie for his own freedom, Skathi would just kill him. It was the only thing for it.

“Fine. I'll set you free if you promise to take me to Skuldafn,” the Dragonborn proclaim, “But I need lunch and a packed dinner before we head out.”

“Onikaan koraav gein miraad. It is wise to recognize when you only have one choice,” Odahviing remarked, “And you can trust me. Zu'u ni tahrodiis. Alduin has proven himself unworthy to rule. I go my own way now. Free me, and I will carry you to Skuldafn.”  
And so, she kept her word. After an apple pie, Skathi prepared some beef stew and baked potatoes to go. When she was ready, she shooed away the curious Farengar and set Odahviing free. He almost looked like he would bolt, but only reached the balcony, waiting on the Dragonborn.

“Saraan uth,” the red dragon stated, “I await your command, as promised. Are you ready to see the world as only a dovah can?"

“I'm ready,” Skathi answered, “Take me to Skuldafn.”

And she mounted the dragon and flew into the sky. Sovngarde awaits.


	23. Chapter 22

High above the world, you could see everything, the fields of grass, towns and farms and cities. But high above the world, you couldn’t see anything, the people going through their lives, the creatures in brush and fauna. It was strange to be this high. Not something Skathi ever thought she would experience a month ago. She wasn’t sure if it was good or not, but she found a new respect for heights.

As the sun began to set, Skuldafn was in sight. The first thing Skathi noticed was that there was no way to reach it on foot; Odahviing was necessary. The mountain face where it rested was smooth, no hand or foot could find purchase in the rock. What’s more, there was no walkway or stairs built for this.

The lack of any way a mortal could enter Skuldafn was bizarre, as it seemed like it was made for them. The ancient buildings and walkways inside it made it seem like it was meant for someone was supposed to be here, but not reach here. Perhaps it was built around the portal to Sovngarde by mortals for Alduin’s purposes and they were brought here by dragons, never to leave alive.

Odahviing descended to a landing seemingly made for dragons. He landed with like an earthquake to his passenger, the sudden shock being as shocking as that would imply. Skathi stumbled off his back and was glad to feel solid ground again, but almost fell off the mountain side in her clumsiness. That would’ve been a terrible death and a terrible ending to the song of the Dovahkiin.

Once Skathi put herself together, Odahviing chimed in. “This is as far as I can take you,” he stated grimly, “Krif voth ahkrin. I will look for your return, or Alduin's.”

Skathi nodded and the red dragon lifted off in the sky, leaving her without any ally to call upon again. Whatever dangers were ahead of her, they were hers and hers alone. She was scared again.

Over her packed dinner, Skathi considered what she should do. She was here, the only chance to end Alduin’s threat, but her courage was leaving her. She was almost ready to throw herself off the cliff herself. She could die to any of the dangers that awaited her, so why give them the chance?

No, not now. She was too close to give up now. She may yet be afraid, she may yet be uncertain that she will reach destiny’s promised day, but even if she died against what awaited her in the temple, that would only let her reach Sovngarde sooner. She would fight Alduin, regardless of what laid before her.

Skathi walked up the stairs before her and made it into the yard. There, the unliving draugr were there. They drew their ancient blades to fight, but Skathi drew her own. Iokogah, the blade of Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, the warrior who died fighting Alduin at the Throat of the World. This was all that was left of her, now reforged by Adrienne Avenicci and Eorland Gray-Mane. This was the blade Skathi intended to pierce Alduin’s hide with.

The first few draugr were slain without a problem, but more appeared with bows and a dragon leading the charge. She drew her bow and loosed several arrows at the undead, but when the dragon tried to burn her, she knew who she needed to slay first.

**“Yol Toor Shul!”**

The Dragonborn Shouted into the dragon’s face as it landed. It almost seemed to grin at the gesture but went right back to trying to kill her. She drew Iokogah and her dagger and the dragon before it took flight. In the air, her dagger found purchase in the side of its head and her sword was slung into its throat fewer times than before until it fell back to the ground. As its power was slowly left it, Skathi tumbled off its freshly exposed skeleton and she went back to slaying draugr.

Throughout the temples and yards, the Dragonborn fought many a draugr and dragon, all fallen upon her approached. She lost count of how many she’d slain. She didn’t have that much faith in her combat ability, but seeing it played out made her believe she could slay Alduin. At least for now.

Her faith would be put to the test. Up a set of stairs was a pillar of energy, perhaps the doorway to Sovngarde. When she reached the top, a skeletal figure stood vigil over the pillar. A strange creature with arms but no legs, decayed gilded robes that hid secrets that didn’t exist anymore, and a mask of ancient ceremony. This strange creature stood in her way and it would stand further.

The creature summoned a spear of ice and threw it at Skathi’s heart, but she threw herself out of the way. She loosed an arrow back at it, but it just passed through a hole in its form. Projectiles where mostly going to be useless in this fight, weren’t they?  
Skathi drew Iokogah and charged the creature. It threw lightning at her, which shocked her back, but didn’t kill her. It could’ve, but not to a doom driven Dragonborn. She charged again and slashed a hole in its robes. It was clearly wounded by its own standards, but not dead. When she tried to stab it, the sword didn’t penetrate its form. It managed to turn its wounded body hard as Ebony stone.

**“Yol Toor Shul!”**

Her dragon breath broke its mystic armor and burned its body. Soon, it was naught but ash. It may have lived longer if the woman it was fighting wasn’t Dragonborn. Well, just being able to summon fire would’ve done it, but the point was the same.  
At the precipice of the pillar was a seal, perhaps what was keeping it open. Stood there, Skathi prepared to meet her destiny. There was truly no return from this. She could maybe survive descending the mountain, but Sovngarde didn’t give that promise. But if she was going to end Alduin’s threat now, she would need to fight him in his own realm.

One step forward and she was in the land of the honored dead.

Sovngarde was amazing. The sky was lit with beautiful lights you could only find in the night of northmost Skyrim. An evergreen forest dressed in snow laid before her. Through it was cut a path flanked by statues of hooded figures, braziers and bones of creatures larger than any normal creature could. It was beyond belief.

Skathi descended the path, finding a fog in her way. She Shouted it away, but it soon returned. It was thick and swarming, far from natural in that regard. And then a familiar roar pierced the air and she looked up. Alduin flew above, hopefully unaware of her presence. She couldn’t chance him noticing though, so chose not to Shout while she was in the fog.

Passing through the fog, she found a Stormcloak soldier. He was frightened of something, probably the World-Eater. Or maybe he hadn’t gotten used to being dead and now he was faced with more madness than he presumed. Skathi approached, sword sheathed.

The moment the soldier saw her, he cried, “Turn back, traveler! Terror waits within this mist!” he continued, “Many have braved the showed vale but vain is all courage against the peril that guards the way.”  
Skathi nodded. “Who are you?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to say something but found no words. He tried again. “Near Giants' Gap, in the gloom before dawn, we marched, unsuspecting into the Imperials' trap,” he told, finding his voice, “Then we stood and fought, our shield-wall defending until by dawn's light the Legion's ranks wavered. But I never knew if nights-end brought victory,” his eyes tightened to stop the tears welling, “a swift-flying arrow to Sovngarde carried me.”

Not a happy story. “What's this mist?” Skathi asked.

“I do not know,” the soldier admitted, looking around, “but none have passed through. Alduin, his hunger insatiable, hunts the lost souls snared within this shadowed valley. Can you lead the way to where Shor's hall waits, beckoning us on to welcome long sought?”

Skathi thought back to the stories told of Sovngarde and remembered what her sister taught her, of Shor’s Hall and Sovngarde. “Yes, it's at the far end of the valley from here,” she stated.

A forlorn look was cast over the solder’s face. “I saw it fair when first I trod this long-sought path,” he recounted, “The pain and fear vanished, dreamlike, and a vision beckoned to,” he paused, almost not believing the words he was saying, “Shor's hall, shimmering across the clouded vale.” And his terror returned to him. “But quenched was hope by the shrouding mist; darkened is my mind. I've lost the way and wander blindly. Hurry! Before Alduin your soul devours bring word to Shor's hall of our hard fate!”  
Skathi put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. “Follow me,” she said, “I'll lead you through this mist.”

He gathered himself. “I'll try to hold to your hopeful purpose,” he stated, “Quickly, before this encompassing fog once more snares me in the World-Eater's net!”

Following close behind her, the soldier and Skathi passed through the fog. It didn’t take long for them to become face to face with a nightmare. Alduin stood in the path. The Dragonborn drew Iokogah in preparation, but he flew away. When Skathi turned around, the soldier was still there. She sighed in relief. Perhaps with the warriors of Shor’s Hall would give her a fighting chance against him.

The two Nords followed the path as well as they could. They eventually found their way to Shor’s Hall. It was magnificent. Statues flanked a skeletal bridge, perhaps the bones of a great whale. The hall itself was massive, elegant and ancient. They crossed the bridge but were face to face with a man larger than any mortal frame on the other side. Surely, this had to be Tsun, god of trials.

“What brings you, wayfarer grim,” he inquired, “to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?”

Skathi was frightened but maintained her composure. “I pursue Alduin, the World Eater,” she proclaimed.

“A fateful errand,” Tsun remarked, “No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught,” he smiled, “perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw.”

When Shor, the chief god of the Nords, sees your coming and believe you will do for slaying a great enemy, it is an honor. Skathi’s composure was slightly breaking.

“I seek entrance to the Hall of Valor,” she proclaimed.

“No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living,” Tsun noted, “you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?”

“By right of birth,” she explained, “I am Skathi Wolf-Runner, Dragonborn.”

“Ah! It's been too long since last I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood,” he cheered.

A strange thought. Weren’t there other Dragonborn of great distinguish. “Can I enter the Hall of Valor?” Skathi requested.

Tsun’s face turned solemn “Living or dead, by decree of Shor,” he proclaimed, drawing his mighty axe, “none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test.”

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

Skathi Shouted and pushed the warrior-god on his back. She drew Iokogah and sent it down on his chest, but his axe blocked the blow. He pushed her back and stood up to smash his blade down. Skathi dodged it and slashed the small of his back. He cried in pain and, before he could turn, Skathi slashed again and again at him. Any mortal would be dead by now.

He laughed, hunched over and using his axe as a walking stick. “That will be enough,” he grinned, “You may enter the Hall of Valor.”

Skathi entered Shor’s Hall, the soldier staying behind to face his own trial to hopeful passage. It was as wonderous as the rest of what she’d seen. Tables running long as the horizon. A spit roast that held enough meat to feed an army. Kegs of the greatest mead Skathi had only seen. And warriors, many who would not be recognizable if not for their likeness being well known to even the youngest Nord children.

The tallest of them, Ysgrammor for certain, raised his mug at the sight of Skathi. “Welcome, Dragonborn!” he proclaimed, “Our door has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here.”

The Atmoran led Skathi through the crowd. She couldn’t believe it. She was side by side with one of the greatest warriors of Nord legend. Whatever others said that showed how he was terrible, of the fate of the Snow Elves; this moment couldn’t be taken away. She was so excited, she let it all out through her sleeves. She flapped her arms and jumped in place like so long ago before her parents thought they got off that. It never went away; she was just never this excited until now.

Ysgrammor smiled, but soon turned his focus to what was before them. “By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist,” he explained, “But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe.”

He gestured to three warriors so Skathi knew from less than a week ago. “Gormlaith the Fearless, glad-hearted in battle;” Ysgrammor proclaimed, “Hakon the Valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim.”

Skathi, though less excited, was still amazed by her allies here. They fought Alduin before and would now again. She felt as though she would need to give Gormlaith her sword back for the battle, but one as crisp and sharp as the day the Fearless died was on her belt. The Dragonborn smiled with a hand on her hilt. Iokogah would stay with her long enough for her to sustain the killing blow.

On Skathi’s approach, Gormlaith cheered, “At long last! Alduin's doom is now ours to seal,” she grinned, “just speak the word and with high hearts we'll hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks.”

“Hold, comrades,” Felldir cautioned, “let us counsel take before battle is blindly joined. Alduin's mist is more than a snare,” his eyes were filled with wariness, “its shadowy gloom is his shield and cloak. But with four voices joined, our valor combined, we can blast the mist and bring him to battle.”

“Felldir speaks wisdom,” Hakon grinned, “the World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn. We must drive away his mist, Shouting together, and then unsheathe our blades in desperate battle with our black-winged foe.”

So, it was time to do battle with Alduin. A terrifying prospect, to be sure. It seemed to be going so fast. But it had to. Any longer would be too long for the World-Eater to stay in this realm. With these warriors three at her back, if they stood side by side, they fell this raven skinned monster.

“To battle, my friends!” Gormlaith bellowed, drawing her sword, “The fields will echo with the clamor of war, our wills undaunted.”

The others drew their weapons and headed out to the hard. They marched with speed and certainty. They held their heads up to the sky, the swirling shape of colors ‘round the greatest source of light, knowing they would not die today. Three had died millennia ago, but Skathi knew she wouldn’t be slain alongside these warriors.

When they reached the fog, Felldir made note, “We cannot fight the foe in this mist!”

“Clear Skies,” Gormlaith commanded, “combine our Shouts!"

**“Lok Vah Koor!”**

And at once, the fog was lifted. They saw Alduin, sneering if he had a mortal face. He Shout again and the fog cloud the grounds again.  
“Again!” Gormlaith commanded.

“We can shatter his power if we Shout together!” Felldir said with certainty.

**“Lok Vah Koor!”**

And again, the fog parted, but the World-Eater called it again.

“Does his strength have no end?” Hakon wondered, “Is our struggle in vain?”

“Stand fast!” Gormlaith commanded, “His strength is failing! Once more, and his might will be broken!"

“His power crumbles,” Felldir stated, “do not pause for breath!”

**“Lok Vah Koor!”**

And in the loudest Shout Skathi ever gave, the fog was gone. Alduin’s sneer fell into barely contained rage. Instead, he called upon his fire and brimstone to frighten and destroy his enemies, but they didn’t waver. They knew it was only as much as a parlor trick compared to his real power.

And all at once

**“Joor Zah Frul!”**

the four warriors gave a mighty Shout that struck the Dragon and he fell to the ground with thunder following him. He seemed not as frightened as before, a resistance building perhaps. He would never fly again if they had anything to say.

As the warriors three charged Alduin, Skathi loosed every black arrow in her quiver into his hide, breaking scales and skin, but not enough to kill him. The now pin cushioned World-Eater would face her blade, with her drawing Iokogah and charging with them. She brought her blade down on him and it broke his hide again.

The offensive on him didn’t raise, as the Nords wouldn’t let him an inch. That was, until he swiped his wings and threw them back. He let loose his fire breath on them, burning all but one. Dragons just won’t learn, will they?

Skathi ran through the flames, barely and singed hair on her, and slashed his snout. He recoiled in pain and the Dragonborn went in for the kill. Alduin saw this and made himself big to frighten her. It worked, but it would not stop her long.

Iokogah stabbed the Dragon’s underbelly, barely piercing his scales. He laughed like its wielder was just a joke. He held is mouth open and brought his jaw down to swallow her whole. She was clasped in his teeth; afraid this was her end. Of all the way to die, she didn’t think it would be like this until now. But with that, she knew this was not how she died.

Skathi’s dagger pierced the back of his throat. It wasn’t much, but made his bite fall away. She would fall from his throat, but she wouldn’t fall now. Her foot found purchase on his canine and she stabbed Iokogah into the roof of his mouth, and she could feel it pierce out the side of his head.

Now Skathi let herself fall out his mouth. He babbled incoherently and squirmed randomly before ribbons of energy burst out of him. He was roaring and gave a display of grandeur as the scales burned away, leaving only a skeleton surrounded by black energy. The blackness burned away and all that was burst into nothingness.

Alduin was slain. Skathi left relieved. Even if there was nothing after this, she had done well. Soon, Tsun was there, staring in wonder.

“This was a mighty deed!” he proclaimed with the power of the gods, “The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever.” But his face became more reserved, “But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, with glad friendship, and bid you join the blessed feasting. When you are ready to rejoin the living, just bid me so, and I will send you back.”

Skathi smiled. “Not yet,” she stated.

“Tarry not too long,” Tsun warned, “the land of the dead is not meant for mortals to linger.”

And so, The Dragonborn joined in the celebration of Shor’s Hall. Shor himself was not there, but the warriors said he was just off on his own business. A sad state, as it was one of the greatest celebrations of the Hall. The warriors of Brodir Grove, Jurgan Windcaller, Olaf One-Eye, High King Torygg, Ysgrammor, all the heroes of Sovngarde and Skathi Wolf-Runner cheered of this great deed. There were many songs, games and other such celebrations.

Skathi was in good cheer. She knew she would have to return to the mortal world, that more enemies would rise to steal, kill and destroy. But for now, she was in paradise.


	24. Epilogue

When Skathi returned to mortal realm, she appeared on High Hrothgar to an audience of dragons. Fortunately, the chief amongst them was Paarthurnax. He gathered them so that he would become ruler of all dragons with Alduin’s lordship ended. He would come to rule over his kind far from the affairs of mortals. No one ever knew where, but that was perhaps for the best.

The Greybeards recognized Skathi Wolf-Runner’s accomplishments and sent her on her way, a champion of Skyrim, such as that meant. This time gave them much opportunity to find new initiates and disciples for the Way of the Voice. They wouldn’t run off to war like Ulfric did, but they would go to war by the calling from the gods for war.

The Blades were still alive. They acknowledged Skathi’s accomplishment but lacked the heart to let her back into the fold. Delphine and Esbern wouldn’t fight alongside her, but no one fought alongside them either. Their order would die out with them for lack of interest. A sad end for a respectable order such as them, but it was the truth of the matter.

Skyrim entered a period of cold war. General Tullius never left Solitude and Ulfric Stormcloak never opened to Imperial rule. The borders were inconvenient, which would lead to the training of Stormcloak warriors and reinforcements for Legionnaires. It would come to a head one day. One day.

Rena Donton would be assigned to the first garrison of Riften to establish the peace.

Jeanne would become an adventurer, traveling Skyrim for treasures.

Ravani would do what she wished, no matter what, but wouldn’t return to Windhelm if Ulfric was alive.

Eoni would prove herself a legend of the Stormcloaks.

Vorsaz’s body was discovered in caves it fell, half eaten by the skeevers. Later investigation would reveal her a repeat cannibal.

Ansgar would be assigned to Riften as well, Mariqa following close behind for some unknown reason.

Skathi wouldn’t return to the wilds and would travel as an adventurer for many miles.

And yet, the story isn’t over.

Not yet.

* * *

She shouldn’t be alive. She was supposed to die in that damn city in that damn place of the Dwarves. Perhaps she would remember something after this.

Saadia was a waitress at the Bannered Mare. She didn’t say much, typically a slow girl to take your orders, but never got them wrong. The fact she had a bounty on her head was surprising. In her own words, she spoke out against the Aldmeri Dominion years ago and was forced from Hammerfell because of it, but someone kept wanting to take her life.

Her assassins, the Alik’r warriors, claimed she was not an enemy of the Thalmor. Their leader, Kematu, claimed she sold a city out to the Thalmor many years ago and someone sent them to enact justice. Not to kill her but bring her to Hammerfell to face the court. She mostly likely be dead at the end of this no matter what the Alik’r said.

Saadia found her an ally, however. Someone to get her out of Whiterun if all went wrong. And it did, for Saadia herself was being sold out. Out in the stables, she looked nervously around through the cover of night. She bolted to mount her horse, one her ally secured. When she touched the horse’s saddle, she fell over, limp as a corpse. This was her ally’s betrayal.

Out from the shadows came Kematu and his men. They wore baggy, thin clothing that left little to protect from the elements. They wore wraps around their heads that frame their faces as a tagelmust, except for Kematu, who wore his hair in dreadlocks on the top of his head. He probably did this to be distinguishable to others, mostly outsiders.

“We meet at last, my dear lady,” Kematu smirked.

“What is this?” Saadia got out through her paralysis, “What have you done?”

The Redguard leader hovered over the woman with pride. “Oh, come now,” he grinned, “You didn't really expect to manipulate people forever, did you? Your luck had to run out sometime.”

Something was wrong. The ally knew that. There was something that couldn’t be narrowed down that pointed to the true story of what happened. Saadia said she was targeted for her belief, but they were the common sentiment of Hammerfell. Kematu said she sold out a city to Thalmor, but they never needed traitors to open gates.

If the Thalmor wanted her dead, why didn’t the Thalmor, of significantly more influence and power in Skyrim than the Redguard of Hammerfell, do it? If Saadia really did betray the city to the Thalmor, why wasn’t she living in Dominion sanctuary? While noble scum who wanted to prove their worth to those who put pressure on them existed, it didn’t make enough sense for either story to be true.

Kematu turned to the betrayer. “Now, we'll take our friend here back to Hammerfell,” he announced with pride, “where she will pay the price for her treason.”

“She won't be harmed?”

"Not on the way back,” he explained, “Once she gets there, it's not up to me to decide what's done with her. And as for you, I owe you a portion of the reward, don't I? Well, here you go.”

The leader gave her a sack of clinking metal. “Spend it wisely, and if I may,” he remarked, “Don't allow yourself to be fooled by a pretty face. You're better than that.”

And something clicked. Saadia couldn’t betray the city. Kematu couldn’t be looking for a traitor. It took this long to understand that they lied, using the Thalmor as a sad story to tug at the heart strings. Whatever reason they had to search for her, whatever reason she was running from them, they didn’t deserve to live.

And so, she who shouldn’t be alive drew her blade. “I only live to kill the allies of the Thalmor,” Mikaela proclaimed, “But none of you are. And yet, you all deserve to die!”

Kematu tried to draw his own sword, but he was too close to get it out in time. He was stabbed straight in his unarmored chest and fell, dead. His fellows looked at his corpse and looked at his killer. They charged Mikaela, perhaps seeking vengeance for their fallen comrade. Saadia lied that the Alik’r warriors would disperse after Kematu’s death, but that obviously wasn’t the first time.

Mikaela raised her blade to meet the curved swords the guards were so obsessed with. They were skilled warriors, clearly, fast and strong sword arms. However, Mikaela wasn’t a warrior. A warrior has honor, maintains their weapons and has a romance a bard would enjoy. She killed people and didn’t care how close they got to killing her.

A two-handed scimitar smashed into her shoulder. It would’ve hurt if she cared. Mikaela’s sword met his chin and went straight to his brain. Another tried catch her in the ribs, but she was too fast, and the scimitar in her shoulder fell out and bloodily bounced on top of him. She finished him off and went on from there.

Soon enough, Mikaela’s body was bloody and beaten. Her wounds were severe, probably life threatening to any mortal form. But the Alik’r warriors were worse. Dead typically is.

“Thank the Divines you changed your mind!” Saadia piped up, barely able to move her head.

Mikaela turned to her. “Tell me the truth,” she growled.

The woman was shocked. “I have told you the truth!” she lied, “I don’t know why- “

Mikaela hunched over her with her dagger drawn. “I should’ve expected you to still be lying,” she sighed.

The dagger met her throat. Bloodily, jamming down like only a dagger can be used. Saadia tried to scream as the life left her, but that was impossible. Mikaela left the fresh bodies and wandered away into the night.

The one thing that lingered over Saadia’s lie was her age. She was far from old enough to be there when Taneth fell. Mikaela was, but she still wouldn’t have that power. She was a child in Hammerfell when the Thalmor came. She saw it all, going from city to city to find a safe place to live. Gilded warriors with the ruthlessness of creatures from beyond the breath of her life. They deserved to die.

All the Thalmor deserved to die in Mikaela’s eyes. They were bastards, but all who chose to placate them earned her scorn as well. She joined the Stormcloaks to fight them all and the puppet of an empire that was in their way. She would take every opportunity to kill the Thalmor and their allies.

Such was her fate, wasn’t it?


End file.
